Harry Potter Crossover Collection
by Von
Summary: Holds inactive stories. Check chapter list for fandom. Active stories are now separate. Chapter 13: The Empress of the Racnoss survived.
1. HPXmen Outcast

**Outcast**

Harry Potter was an outcast to his family, his neighborhood, his peers and now the mutant community too.

_Set after X-men movie 1 and Harry's 5__th__ year._

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It was eleven o'clock, on the day of Harry's return from his fifth year at Hogwarts.

After the warning to his relatives, Harry had expected one of two things.

a) The warning would serve to hold his family back - much like compressing air into a canister, or

b) The warning would first compress his family, but ultimately fail to hold them. 

_Warning: Contents under pressure._

Incredibly, though, no such thing had happened. Uncle Vernon scowled to himself in the car, but it was much more like the mild irritation he used to display, rather than the apoplexy he'd engaged in when Harry had started going to Hogwarts.

When he'd arrived home, his Uncle had taken his trunk from the car without a word. Harry, carrying Hedwig's cage warily in his arms, followed.

Once the front door had been closed behind the family his Aunt and Uncle had escorted him up to Dudley's second bedroom.  
>Which was now, apparently, Dudley's new 'Rock Room'.<p>

A sound-insulation layer, about a hand or two in thickness, had been installed around all walls. The window no longer existed. A huge, gleaming drum set had place of pride in the center of the room, with a large reinforced chair behind it.

A mini fridge was in one corner of the room, a bin in the other and a very low couch squished in against the far wall.

The first thing that Harry thought, was _No way Dudley'll let me be here._ Followed closely by a resigned _Guess it's the cupboard again then._

Then his Aunt handed him a brand new, waterproof backpack and started talking.

"We've had enough." She said simply, as though talking about Mrs-Next-Door's tendency to let her tree grow into their yard. "We can't stand having you here another day. Put everything of yours you want to keep into that backpack. Anything you leave out, we will get rid of."

Harry just stared at her. Flashes of Dumbledore's dire warnings and complicated protections flashed through his mind.

But it wasn't enough.

So soon after loosing Sirius.. So soon after discovering his own death was all but fated.. Having his last living family tell him to his face that they couldn't stand him any longer and wanted him out...

He just didn't care any more. Even if Voldemort was standing on the footpath outside, wand raised to cast the killing curse, he would still walk out.

His Aunt was still talking, Vernon standing besides her - so far remaining silent.

"The only reason we put up with your.. abnormality.. for so long was because of the protection it gave Dudley." She informed him, with icy disassociation. As though it weren't _her_ fifteen year old nephew she was tossing into the street. "But we've discussed it, and I've found another option. So long as you stay with a blood relative, your m... ma... your freak stuff will keep us all protected from that revolting creature stalking you."

Harry frowned, confusion, grief, deadened acceptance and the faintest twist of painful hope all assaulting him at once.

"What... what relative?" He asked, voice breaking slightly. Aunt Petunia's lips drew painfully tight.

"Your Mother's Father." She snapped brusquely. "He's normal, but he..." The lips pursed further, contempt and distaste dripping from her. "..he was inclined to believe your sister was something more than the freak she really was. Even when _your kind_ killed my mother and crippled him, he still defended them."

Harry reeled from the new information. His Mother's Father... He had a grandfather... after so many years of hatred and abuse and neglect... he found out he had a grandfather.

Who apparently didn't think wizard-kind was so bad.

"He sounds nice.." He volunteered, for lack of anything else to say. Now he was starting to wonder why a wizard-amiable grandfather had never bothered to talk to him his whole life. Had never cared. Probably still didn't.

"He was a _fool_." Petunia hissed venomously. "He never seemed to _understand_ that these freaks were dangerous! That we needed to protect ourselves from them! I tried to tell him, again and again, but he just kept brushing me off with his _stupid_ words and his _stupid_ beliefs..." His Aunt was breathing heavily now, face pinched and pale, with two red spots of anger on her cheeks. The last time he'd seen her _this_ worked up was when Harry had first discovered his Mother was a witch.

And somehow, this was worse. This wasn't just hate or resentment. There was pure fury and rage in his Aunt now, at the mere thought of her father.

_Hang on_.. he thought.

Uncle Vernon had placed a soothing hand on his wife's back and was stroking her gently. Aunt Petunia had her eyes closed as she fought to get herself under control. Self restraint like this would have been great, say, for the last ten years.

"You said... you said _my_ Mother's Father..." He started, confusion plain to hear in his voice. His Aunt stiffened, but Harry pressed on, regardless. "Why wouldn't he be-"

His Aunt slapped him.

Harry's head jerked to the side, eyes widening with shock. His fingers clenched around the bag in his arms and he felt his magic leap to life under his skin. Like an echo, he sensed - for the first time - an answering magic in the walls of the house _reacting_, smothering his own magic until he could no longer feel it.

Anti Accidental-Magic enchantments? It would explain a lot.. Like why years of physical and emotional abuse had so rarely resulted in explosions or, say, protective - _defensive_ - magic.

When he next saw Albus Dumbledore, he was going to punch the old man right in the nose.

"_You will not say another word."_ His Aunt all but snarled at him. Never prone to much physical violence, ignoring the hair-grabbing and needlessly rough hands for anything that involved touching him, a slap from his Aunt carried twice the shock value of a blow from his Uncle.

Harry eyed his Aunt warily. Strangely enough, he felt no fear of her.. only a lingering, dangerous contempt.

Petunia seemed to spend a few seconds warring with herself over what to say.

"I was the first child in the family." She finally bit out. "When my father.. passed away, my mother remarried and they had _Lily_. That is all you need to know, you insolent brat."

She huffed a forced breath in an attempt to calm. Harry's eyes merely widened. He hadn't known his Mum and Aunt were only half-sisters!

"Inside the front pocket of that bag, you will find a passport, a one-way ticket to Westchester County and a further ticket to Devon. Both are non-refundable, and the flight staff have promised to escort you to your second flight, so don't get any clever ideas."

That instruction was driven home with a glare from both of his guardians.

"There is a piece of paper with your Grandfather's address written on it, inside your passport. Do **not** loose it, unless you _want_ to die on the streets. How you get from Devon to.. to.." His Aunt's mouth twisted again, horribly, as though she'd just bitten into a chunk of lemon. "_New Salem_." She finished gutturally, as though trying not to say the words.

"How you get from there to your Grandfather's is your own concern. We've already spent a fortune on these tickets, so don't think you'll be getting a penny more. Now, your plane leaves tomorrow morning at 1 am. We'll be leaving the house at 11pm, to make sure we get there in time, so be sure you have everything you're bringing. You'll not be leaving this room until tonight."

She paused and drew herself up.

"You may take something from Dudley's mini-fridge to tide you over till then." She allowed.

Harry watched his Aunt and Uncle leave the room, the door closing behind them, the numerous locks clicking into place.

Then, slowly and with the jerky motions of someone only barely hanging onto their sense of reality, he opened his trunk and his new backpack and began transferring only the most important items across. 

_Outcast_

Summer in America was _nothing_ like Summer in England.

He wasn't quite sure _why_ that was, but at this point – with sweat plastering his hair to his skull and his lungs straining in the dry, harsh air – he didn't particularly care, either.

Because he was lost. Completely, utterly, _miserably_ lost.

He hadn't thought about trying to hitch a lift, not at first. With no money for a bus or a taxi, he'd done his best to track down the address on maps found in the airport bookshop. It hadn't been too difficult, once he'd worked out that most maps came with an index on the back.

Getting there, though... He'd borrowed a pen and written directions onto the piece of paper that contained his Grandfather's address. Then he'd tightened the ratty laces on Dudley's old cast offs and started walking.

The amount of times he got turned around, he wished he'd just stolen a damn map.

Barely two hours into his trek, a car had pulled over next to him. A tired-looking man had asked him if he wanted a lift… and Harry – Harry who'd been tortured and hunted by more killers than he had years alive – had barely given it a thought before accepting.

It wasn't until the fourth guy locked the doors and stopped the car that Harry learned what most kids learn from early childhood.

_Stay away from strangers_.

The man wasn't violent, but he also wasn't shy. Not a moment after the engine had been switched off, he'd crowded Harry against the door, heavy weight pressing into him, lips closing against the skin of his throat, his tongue rough and wet and demanding.

Harry panicked.

His hands slammed against the man's chest, pushing him away desperately. His under-nourished, over-exhausted strength didn't achieve much, but the parallel reaction of his magic fortunately _did_.

The man went flying, smashing backwards out of his cab and propelled through a shower of glass a good twenty meters down the road. The door behind Harry had buckled, but remained locked in place, so the shaking youth grabbed his bag and scrambled out over the front of the car.

He gave one long, nervous look at the un-moving body on the road.

Then he ran.

_Outcast_

By some fluke of luck, he eventually stumbled over one of the roads listed in his hastily scrawled directions. He walked back and forth along it – wasting hours of fading daylight – as he'd struggled to find the intersecting road he _should_ have entered it from. Once he found it he almost cried with relief.

Finally re-orientated, he'd shifted the straps of his backpack away from the indentations they were making in his shoulders and carried on.

Night had fallen before he estimated himself to be halfway.

Twice more he had panicked about being lost – sometimes the roads he passed by weren't signposted. Sometimes he just felt like he'd been walking so long _he _had to have missed it and then wasted yet **more** time backtracking to check.

Exhausted, bone-weary and aching from sunburn and dehydration both, he wanted little more than to curl up and go to sleep. Common sense said that he shouldn't stay by the road but he also didn't know what kind of dangerous creatures lived in America. Didn't they have... scorpions and bears? And buffalo? (He couldn't quite remember if buffalo were just extra-hairy cows or not, but he didn't want to risk it, either.)

He thought about climbing one of the trees that lined the road – they were getting older and larger the further he walked – but right before he touched one his poor night vision managed to pick out the fact that it was _covered_ in a mass of thick little ant bodies – saving him some rather painful bites. Now he couldn't even contemplate sleeping anywhere but on the nice, safe, human-made bitumen. It was probably still warm...

"Ok, get a grip, Harry." He muttered to himself, shaking his head sharply for good measure. "No matter how nice and warm the road is, if you sleep on it you _will_ get splattered by a lorry."

He looked up at the dark sky visible through the thick, ominous-looking tree cover.

"You're almost there." He told himself, trying to sound firm even as his ears heard how alone and quiet his voice sounded in the great silence of night.

He'd passed the massive lake already – it had been a major enough landmark that he'd written it down – and had managed to _not_ be horribly murdered and thrown into it. That was clearly a good omen.

Now he was passing through an intersection containing a couple of large buildings, zero streetlights and a very creepy-looking church. Once more, the idea of spending the night raised its head. He could find somewhere around these buildings, surely? There was a jeep he could easily fit underneath parked across the road. Even the building it sat next to – it had a porch with a roof over it. And weren't priests supposed to help... No. No, not even _he _was stupid enough to go poking around churches that looked_ that_ spooky.__

He spotted the little red street sign and squinted at it. The sky was clear enough here for moonlight to illuminate the words.

"June road." He murmured to himself, a little afraid of making too much noise. __

Sure enough 'Cross June rd' was scrawled up against the margin of his notes. He looked at his path ahead, where it vanished into a gnarled mess of trees, defiantly striking away from civilisation.

"Right. Just keep following this road into that.. creepy.. narrow road of death." He grumbled. "The creepy road that would probably look quite nice under full sunshine. I bet the church here has a bake sale every weekend. Suck it up, Potter."

Grimly, he drew a deep breath. He was tired and aching and cold. But he was also a Griffindor. And besides, after staring Voldemort down, how bad could a forest-strangled road in the dead of night be?

"Even _if_ it's home to hundreds of werewolves." He half joked, half moaned. A nervous glance at the sky at least assured him that he probably hadn't just jinxed himself.

Unless American werewolves went furry during the half-moon or something contrary like that..

_Stop it! _He scolded himself harshly, forcing leaden feet to keep walking.

Thankfully, nothing lunged out of the foliage to tear him limb from limb. His nervous adrenaline kept fading away into bored exhaustion, only to be renewed every time the wind gusted suddenly or some feral cat _ohmerlinpleaseletitbeacat_ stirred the lower bushes.

He walked and walked and walked, past isolated houses (each one obviously home to a serial murderer) and blearily ducked out of sight each time approaching lights heralded another car. He worried that his shoes – never tough to begin with – would simply fall apart as the worn material shifted around. He felt the blisters on his feet pop with a release of pressure and tried to ignore the pain as they continued to be rubbed raw.

When he reached a T-Junction and saw the sign 'Vox' hanging next to the road, his eyes teared up and he hunched down against the ground, quite unable to stop himself whimpering in despair.

Vox had been marked on the map with the little symbol that meant 'food is here'. Harry had originally made a note of it because it was as good a landmark as any to tell him if he'd gone too far. And now, he knew he had. Somewhere in the night, he'd missed his turnoff.

_I'm close, though, I'm close_. He tried to comfort himself, the way he had tried his entire life. _It's alright. It's ok. I'm almost there. _He sniffled and looked up, eyes latching on to the rapidly pinking sky like a dying man desperate for hope.

"See?" He whispered miserably to himself. "It's getting lighter. Things will get better. If worst comes to worse, I can just wait till this place opens and then ask for directions."

Vox wasn't just some roadside cafe, but an actual restaurant. It made him feel better to know that in just a few hours it would be filled with people doing their jobs and if he needed to, he could find them and ask for help. They'd be 'safe' in a way some stranger's house or car could never be.

With that nugget of hope – and a glimmer of a fallback plan – bolstering his determination, he stood back up and turned around. Obviously the road he needed was somewhere before him – and he knew it wasn't very far.

"Old Center Salem Road, then turn left onto Graymalkin Lane." He said to himself, louder this time – almost a normal speaking voice. He fanned the little flame of excitement within him. He was only two (long) streets away, technically speaking, from his Grandfather's house! He was really almost there, at last. He could do this!

He didn't have to walk far back before he realised that the little dirt road – more of a track, really – branching off to the right was the road he was looking for. Fresh, excited adrenaline surged, helping to wash away – or subdue – most of his exhaustion. He didn't even feel much pain in his feet any longer!

The sun rose steadily as he followed the long road and the creepy forested landscape of the night became a beautiful, tranquil country landscape by day. He wasn't sure what time it was but the heat was building quickly and the sound of human activity steadily rose. Cars were humming almost constantly off to his right, behind the trees where another road ran parallel to this one.

Sooner than he expected, his eyes came across a new-looking sign that pointed the way to 'Graymalkin Lane'.

He swallowed and followed it, now starting to think of what he would say to his Grandfather. He knew his Aunt wouldn't have called ahead – just in case he would refuse to take Harry in.

The clear, still air was broken by the sounds of youthful calls and shouts – it sounded a little like waking up late on a Saturday morning to the sounds of Hogwarts students enjoying themselves in the air or on the grounds outside their tower window.

Had his Grandfather remarried and had lots of kids? Or maybe it was just some neighbors.

A tall hedge ran the full length of the road on the right and suddenly he realised that at some point it had become a creamy stone wall covered in vines. That wall was broken by tall iron gates which stood mostly closed – only a slip of space between them.  
>Set into the wall beside them was a plaque.<p>

"Xavier's school for gifted youngsters" Harry read aloud.

He glanced up, looking down the long drive of immaculate stone and garden to the manor at the end.

For one wild second, he wondered if his Grandfather really _was_ a Wizard and Aunt Petunia just didn't know.. was this an American version of Hogwarts?

Then he saw the obviously electronic video cameras mounted over the gates.. not to mention the electronic locks and the clearly muggle lights on the building visible even from here. The place didn't have that sense of stepping into a magic, like Hogwarts did, either.

He'd have to be careful. The last thing he wanted was to expose himself – and his grandfather and these kids here – to the dangerously infiltrated and corrupt magical ministry out to inflict their laws on him and anything associated with him.

His feet throbbed sharply and his muscles gave the flat threat that if he didn't keep moving, they would see to it he_ wouldn't _move for the next few weeks. Drawing a shaking, steadying breath, he slipped through the open gates and walked towards his Grandfather's home. 

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><em>

Harry's first impression of the place was...

_Wow_.

In a small, normal way.. this place was kinda cool. Less showy than Hogwarts, but five years at _that_ place had shown him that Wizards favoured glittering, peacock exteriors with rotten, ugly interiors.

This place was.. calm. Classy, almost. Quietly reassuring.

Harry swallowed and tugged the straps of his backpack up over his aching shoulders. He was suddenly acutely aware of how grimy and sweaty he was – probably smelly too.

_Can't turn back now_. He thought firmly, shoring up his courage and walking up to the front door.

He knocked just as a soft-toned bell rung out within the school. Frowning, he stepped back. Should he knock again? Probably no-one heard the first knock over the bell.

There was a low noise that came rapidly closer and louder. The door in front of him abruptly slammed open – causing Harry to flinch back – and a mass of noisy teenagers flowed out and around him. Unlike in the Wizarding World, most of them didn't even seem to notice him, merely moving around the stationary obstruction on instinct alone. One or two sent him a curiously appraising look and one boy shot him an easy, welcoming smile.

None of them paused, however. Most were complaining about homework set for the weekend and a couple of girls were giggling shrilly over a magazine as they walked.

After only a few moments the tide had vanished off onto the grounds, leaving the door wide open and the hallway behind it empty.

Cautiously, Harry stepped inside. He looked around nervously, taking in the richly coloured wood and fixtures of the building. A large umbrella stand to his left held a mismatch of umbrellas, hockey sticks and collapsed sunshades. There were a scattering of different-sized sports balls lined up against the wall underneath a printed sign that read 'Please return ALL sports equipment to the shed!'. Someone or someones had scribbled 'Sorry!' and ''I'll sorry _you_!' on it in different coloured inks.

He kept walking, looking through open doorways to see empty rooms full of desks – singular and grouped, straight and curved. There were whiteboards – he remembered them from primary school – on movable stands and most were covered in writing.

So, definitely some kind of school. One that ran through the summer, apparently.

He had just reached some kind of foyer with a dual staircase to his left, another hallway ahead of him and a double-door to his right when he heard footsteps from above him. He stopped and turned towards the stairs, unsure as to whether he should go upstairs and find someone or if that would be some kind of creepy line-crossing.

Luckily, the footsteps were coming down to _him_. A second later, two women were breaking off their conversation with a sort of surprised understanding on their faces.

"Hello." The redheaded woman smiled at him. Despite her hair colour, she didn't look at all like the Weasleys. In fact, even though her eyes were kind, there seemed to be an authoritarian edge just waiting to get him – much like McGonagall.

Harry shuffled his feet and thought again about how absolutely grotty he must look.  
>The other woman who had white hair and dusky skin stepped slowly towards him.<p>

"Can we help you?" She asked quietly, exchanging a look with the redheaded woman.

"Ah, yes, sorry." Harry started. "I, er.. I knocked but then these kids came out and the door was open, so, er..."

The women seemed a little surprised, but not unhappy at all.

"It's fine." Smiled the redhead. "I'm glad you did – it can get pretty hectic around here. You, uh, look like you've had quite a trip to get here. Can I get you a drink of something?"

Harry coughed, abruptly reminded of how very thirsty he was. "Uh, thank you. Maybe some water, please?" He asked politely, feeling himself blush a little.

"Right this way." Redhead replied, striding briskly down the corridor opposite them. Harry followed quickly with the other woman bringing up the rear.

He waited silently as they entered a kitchen, white-haired lady directing him to sit at the island table whilst Redhead opened a violently purple fridge and withdrew a jug of chilled water. She poured the three of them a glass each, then left the jug on the table as she joined them.

Harry had just raised his glass for a grateful sip when three teenagers entered the room and stopped short at the sight of the three of them already there.

"Whoops." One said quietly. "Hi Mrs Cyclops, Hi Professor Storm!" Another chirruped.

Redhead gave them an exasperated look. "Don't you have a study period now?" She asked pointedly.

"Yeah! We do – we are!" A skinny girl with spiky hair fell over herself to assure them. "We're just, like, getting brain fuel!"

"Yeah, and then we're going.. to.. wherever we left our books.." Finished a short boy with an unconvincing but very sincere grin.

"Uh huh." Redhead remarked disbelievingly. The third teen, another girl with long brown hair and odd little white stripes glanced around the room and fixed her gaze on the stranger.

"So, uh, we gotta newbie?" She asked brightly, clearly trying to change the subject but directing a genuinely friendly smile at the short, skinny boy.

"We don't know yet, Rogue." White-haired woman rolled her eyes. "Someone just interrupted us."

"Like, that is _**so**_ rude of us!" Yelped the short-haired girl. She darted forward and took the seat across from Harry, stabbing one hand forward and snatching Harry's free hand up in an enthusiastic hand shake.

Harry coughed on the water he'd just drunk and put the glass down to smile back at the insane girl shaking his hand rather more vigorously than needed.

Great, not a school. A mental asylum.

Redheaded lady suddenly blurted a laugh which she turned into a cough and Harry shot her a perplexed look.

"My name is Kitty!" Short-haired girl introduced herself, still shaking his hand. She waved a hand over her shoulder. "Those two losers are Jake and Rogue – I'm shaking your hand for Rogue because she spilled coke all over her gloves this morning."

Harry glanced over at the other girl and saw that she wasn't actually _wearing_ gloves at all.

Maybe this was some kind of weird American joke?

Deciding to err on the side of politeness, he pretended he understood and smiled a bit more genuinely.

"Hello, it's nice to meet you. I'm Harry."

He'd barely finished speaking before both girls let out an ear-piercing shriek and Rogue lunged over to join her friend at the table.

"Oh my _GOD_, you're British!" They squealed in unison. Harry leaned back with slightly wide eyes and glanced first at the women – who just looked amused – and then at the other boy who was standing with his arms crossed looking bored.

"Er. Yes." He replied at length.

"What're you doin' way over _here_?" Rogue asked, her accent a little stronger than Kitty's. To Harry, who had been raised by xenophobic muggles and attended a very exclusive European school, they both sounded wonderfully exotic.

"Oh! Uhm." Harry reached down to where his backpack was sitting at his feet. He opened the zipper and rummaged in it for his crumpled sheet of directions, which still had his grandfather's name and address on it.

"I, uh, might be in the wrong place." He admitted reluctantly. He was half-certain he must be – this was some kind of school, not a house, after all. "But I'm looking for my Grandfather." He opened the paper, re-reading the name for the hundredth time. "Uhm, Charles Xavier?"

There was a round of shocked gasps. Harry looked up, surprised to see that every other person in the room was gaping at him.

"...What?" He asked warily. 

_Outcast_

"WHAT?"

Almost twenty teenagers gaped at three others, gathered together at one long dining room table. Students sitting at other tables near-by had twisted around to listen in, their eyes equally wide.

"The professor has a kid?" Bobby asked, shocked – perhaps unreasonably – at the idea of their calm, powerful headmaster having some kind of social life beyond world-saving.

"Had, I think." Rogue corrected. "Otherwise why would his grandson be here looking for him?"

"Butbutbut _that's_ not the _best_ bit!" Kitty interrupted eagerly. Jake, on her other side, rolled his eyes.

"You don't _know_ anything, Kitty." He said sharply. "You're just guessing and spreading stupid rumours – like usual."

Kitty barely paused to glare at him.

"Shut up, I know I'm right." She bitched lightly. "I am _so_ right." She turned back to their curious crowd.

"I think the Professor's grandkid is a **norm**." She finished ominously, the juicy topic making her grin as she said it.

There was a round of shocked and – in some cases, angry – gasps.

Rogue bit her lip. "Now, I reckon Jake is right, Kits. You don't _know_ that. He might be a mutant and not even know it, yet – not everyone does. Especially if his power is something mental, like the Professor."

Jake scoffed. "You mean he thinks _everyone_ hears what other people are thinking?" He joked harshly. "Hasn't quite caught on to the fact that people are thinking _at_ him and not talking?"

"Don't be stupid, you ass." Kitty unexpectedly came to Rogue's defence. "Just because they're related doesn't mean the guy will have the same power as the Professor! And even if he did, it might be like, a lot weaker or something."

Jake snorted. "So now you're saying he's _not_ a norm anymore?" He mocked, grinning a little.

Kitty sniffed and turned back to her dinner.

"Nah, I stand by what I said. He's _such_ a norm. I mean, I'm sure he's a nice guy and all, but..."

This time Jake laughed. "You liked him fine before. '_Oh_ my _gawd_, you're _British_!'" He mimicked the girls' reaction in a squeaky voice.

Kitty backhanded his arm.

"Shuddup." She advised through a mouthful of potato.

"So, where is he?" Bobby asked curiously. Kitty, Rogue and Jake shrugged.

"Dunno." Jake didn't look like he cared much either. "We got hustled out, double-quick. I guess they took him to see the Professor."

They were quiet for a time, the normal sounds of the evening meal slowly picking up again. Many a glance was sent towards the table normally used by their teachers. It wasn't uncommon for it to be empty from time to time, but now it suddenly seemed more interesting.

"I think it's sweet." Rogue said a few minutes later. "He.. he looked really tired. And kinda sad. I think he probably needs the Professor, like, really bad. So, I'm glad he found him, even if he _is _ a norm."

There was a general air of agreement and the subject got changed to what was on cable that night. Bobby looked thoughtfully at Rogue and nudged her leg under the table. Rogue looked up and Bobby smiled. Rogue smiled gratefully back and re-joined the conversation. Bobby looked over at the empty teacher's table. He thought he knew what was _really_ worrying his girlfriend.

Rogue knew first hand how ruthless Magneto and his lot could be in the pursuit of their goals. Professor Xavier was their strongest opponent. A grandson would be a prime weapon against him, _especially_ if the kid was a norm. He'd be viewed as less than an animal by Magneto and have no chance at protecting himself.

It was weird, to think of a norm being amongst them... and feeling sorry for him. 

_Outcast_

_The redhead (Mrs Cyclops, and wasn't that_ some kind of omen?) had hustled him into a long room at the back of the building shortly after she'd chased the three gawping teenagers away.

Smiling a little awkwardly, she'd assured him that he'd come to the right place except that his Grandfather wasn't there at the moment. White-haired lady – Storm, apparently – had made noises about calling him and had slipped away. Mrs Cyclops took that moment to remember how disgusting he looked and had promptly snatched up the jug and his glass of water and ordered him to follow her.

Upon arrival in the long room that bore an unpleasant resemblance to the Hogwarts' hospital wing done in wood instead of stone, she'd gently bullied him onto a bed and had the glass in his hand within seconds. Under her fixed stare he'd gulped the glass of water down and instantly refilled it – earning an approving look.

"It will probably be a few hours before the Professor gets back." Mrs Cyclops explained as she moved about a large built-in-cupboard at the end of the room. "So why don't you grab a shower and a nap whilst you wait? You look absolutely exhausted. Whereabouts have you come from?"

The last question was asked as she found what she was looking for and walked over to him. In her hands were a set of pajamas, soft-looking but clearly brand new and a nice deep blue colour. Harry took them from her and remembered to answer her question. It wasn't easy – with the water and the lack of movement, his exhaustion was settling down like a heavy blanket and his mind was shutting happily down.

"Uh, England." He muttered after a beat. "My aunt sent me."

He thought Mrs Cyclops frowned, but he may have been mistaken. The room was getting dimmer and he couldn't take his eyes off the soft PJs in his hand. He wondered if she'd mind if he just leant back and...

"If she'd called, we could have picked you up from the airport. Saved you a cab fare."

"No cab." Harry admitted, too tired to pretend – or care enough to pretend – otherwise. "I didn't have any money. Just.. checked a map and walked. Walked forever. Got lost.."

He was mumbling now and only realised he had started to tip over when a slender – but a strong – hand caught him and righted him.

"Sorry." He muttered, rubbing at his face.

"It's alright." Mrs Cyclops was speaking even softer now. Unfortunately, she didn't seem inclined to let him sleep. The hand was tugging him off the bed and he winced as weight settled on his blistered, raw feet again. They hurt _more_ now after having had a brief rest.

He was led down the row of beds to the showers and found himself standing alone in a wide cubicle which had a separated dressing area and a shower area. The shower was already on – steam rising from it.

Only a desire to feel that gorgeous warm water had him moving enough to strip his stained and ill-fitting clothing off. Getting his feet out of Dudley's ratty trainers was a more ginger affair and he bit his lip when he saw that the insides were caked with slimy blood.

He hissed as he stepped into the shower and his feet stung but it was also a good thing – had they not hurt so much, he would surely have just passed right out into the delicious warmth.

As it was he kept half-dozing off, only to startle awake as he kept feeling like someone was putting a hand to his elbow to help him stay upright. It was creepy enough to get him to pull himself together long enough to wash himself and get out. Drying was half-hearted and soon enough he was in his Pjs and holding his revolting clothes and shoes in a ball.

He shuffled out and paused, unwilling to stain the floor with his blood.

Jean looked over to him from a desk where she'd been reading a magazine, a curious look on her face.  
>Her eyes flickered down to his feet and understanding coupled with something more unpleasant flickered over her expression. Still, her smile was kind enough as she offered him some simple flip-flops to wear to get back to the bed, whereupon he sank under the heavy blankets with relieved delight and promptly passed out, not even rousing as the woman properly treated and wrapped his feet.<p>

**End Outcast**

The address for Xavier's Manor was taken mostly from the plaque on the wall at the end of the X-men movie but 'adjusted' a little to fit into both geography and conflicting reports. For example, there IS no 'Graymalkin Lane' so when picking a random place for it to be, I decided on shoving it a little East of Salem Center where the area was a bit more developed and picked 'Old Center Salem Road' as a nod to the original address. 

The idea for this story was for Harry to experience exclusion/people different from himself in a new way. He's found a relation that actually likes him, but also found a whole bunch of people who regard him with disdain or dislike for an entirely new reason - being 'normal'. I wanted there to be a bit of personal growth on both sides of the equation, with an eye to social development on behalf of all three species.

I toyed with the idea of Harry having _some_ small amount of psychic ability – maybe a heightened awareness. Dumbledore saw Harry's open mind – spying on Voldemort was Harry's ability in action – but saw it as a weakness to be protected and removed – hence Snape. If Harry couldn't learn to shield sufficiently, his ability was intended to be destroyed – like forcing a cave-in to MAKE a barrier. However, this idea conflicted with a movie-fact of 'The male carries the X gene' so I wasn't sure if it was feasible. Even if it was in the story, it wouldn't have been an issue because his mind had been deliberately sealed off.

This has been hanging around for a **long** time with very little progress so it's posted here! 


	2. HPCharmed Wiccan

**Harry Potter / Charmed**

One dark, moonless night, a witch's house stood silent.

The old home was steeped in the magic of generations. Even now, quiet and still, it radiated a sense of power.

Without warning, one dark window flashed with blue-white light...

...And Christopher Perry Halliwell woke up, over 7000 miles away, dressed in nothing but a pair of blue cotton boxers.

A lifetime of demon attacks had him snapping awake and rolling to his feet, backing away to find cover with a wave of telekinesis ready to lash out.

The lack of demons left him floundering.

He was in a room, clearly on Earth and not underground – he could see a streetlamp out the window. It was night time, the sky outside pitch black and the air heavy with summer heat.  
>The room itself was tiny – more like Aunt Phoebe's walk-in closet than a real room. It was stifling too. The window was shut and the stale air stank of sweat and sour unwashed body odour.<p>

The silence was broken by a low, rasping breath. Chris turned to the right and saw a body on the bed, uncovered and sprawled, very battered and very unconscious.

"Shit." He breathed, stepping cautiously closer to the bed. The person – a boy – didn't stir. Something about the room encouraged him to be quiet, though. There was a sense of oppressive danger, an echo of fear.

Carefully, Chris touched a hand to the boy's face. His skin was freezing but sweaty and grimy at the same time. Bruises littered his face, dried blood was encrusted around his nostrils and over two splits in his lips.

"Wyatt!" Chris hissed lowly. "Wyatt! Get your butt here now!"

Many times in his life he had lamented his inability to heal – Wyatt had had his ability since they were kids but Chris had yet to manifest the skill. Story of his life, of course.

He swallowed and ran a leading hand down the boy's neck and chest. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he felt sure he'd know if he felt something obviously wrong – something to warrant screaming his brother's name instead.

"Wyatt, wake up! I need your help!" He hissed again. To his relief, there was a shower of orbs this time except the person who appeared was _not_ his brother.

"Marge?" He asked, bewildered. The woman bowed her head and moved to sit by the unconscious boy.

"Your brother can't hear you, Chris." The Elder was a woman of uncertain age, with kind eyes but a firm, frowning mouth. "I'm afraid you're on your own for this one."

"What are you talking about?" Chris demanded. "What's going on?"

Marge looked down at the boy next to her and smiled sadly.

"This is Harry. Harry Potter." She answered evasively. "He's fifteen years old and he's a wizard."  
>Chris blinked and double-checked the unconscious youth. "Warlock?" He gasped, backing up a step.<p>

Marge shook her head. "You can ask your father to explain the difference later. For now, suffice to know that this child needs help and _we_ cannot provide it. No Whitelighter can be assigned to guide him. No protection can be given to him. All we can do – and we are at risk to do even this much – is alert a witch to his situation and hope that he finds it within himself to do what we cannot."

"He meaning me." Chris observed dryly. "But what's the big deal? We're supposed to protect innocents all the time, after all."

"Several things." Marge answered patiently. "For one, this boy is _not_ an innocent. He's not a mortal, he's not a witch, he's a wizard. He has already killed, more than once. For another, this is not something we are asking of the Charmed Ones. Officially, we are not asking at all. We are hoping you, Chris, will find it in your heart to help him, but we cannot ask you to."

"Uh, ok." Chris answered cautiously, sensing that he wouldn't get a straight answer as to the 'why' any time soon. "But, what can I do? I can't even heal and this kid looks like he needs it. Badly. You should have grabbed Wyatt, or Aunt Paige..."

Marge was shaking her head before he even finished speaking.

"No. This is something we know beyond doubt. What needs to be done, only you can do." She held up a hand to stall Chris' answer and turned to lay them both over the boy. They glowed softly and Chris watched silently as the kid sighed and uncurled as the pain and damage faded.

"This boy... he's had a very hard life." Marge said quietly, not looking away. "He's struggled against evil since before he could speak. But he's starting to tire. If nothing is done, he will drown in it and Evil will find a champion in him like none before him. A champion to rival your brother."

Ok, yeah, _now_ she had Chris' total, horrified attention.

"_This_ kid?" He asked incredulously. Even free from injury and defensive unconscious huddling, the kid was horribly skinny and dirty. He was practically the poster child for 'abused young teen'. He looked like a cold could finish him off, the idea of him ever being a threat to twice-blessed, King of Magic _Wyatt_ was unthinkable.

"He already has the power." Marge enlightened him. "But not the will to use it to harm. But even the strongest branch can snap under sufficient weight. Harry Potter cannot handle much more. His need is most desperate."

"But _what_ does he need?" Chris asked stridently. "What the hell can I do for him that Wyatt or some other witch can't?"

Marge finally turned to face him and Chris was shocked to see her crying.

"_Help_ him." The Elder implored. "Befriend him. Support him. Care for him. Allow him to befriend _you_. Let him matter to you, _be_ someone who cares if he lives or dies. Hold him when he despairs of ever experiencing love, help him stay afloat when the world is dragging him under. You are a kind, loving young man and he so desperately needs some kindness in his life."

Chris sank to his knees, glancing from the boy to the Elder.

"You really care." He mused. "Like, beyond the 'future evil blah blah' crap. Why?"

Marge closed her eyes.

"The wizards are one of our greatest failures." She answered at length. "To see their greatest bastions of light be smothered and twisted... it is a terrible thing. And this child... he could have been so great, Chris. He could have been an icon of Good. Now, all we can pray for is that he does not become an evil that _eradicates_ Good. There are even some Elders who pray for him to die, if only so that his soul can be saved and guided carefully to a life more worthy of it. So _he_ can experience a life more deserving of him."

Chris nodded, reaching a hand out in an unconscious attempt to comfort and half-surprised when it landed on the boy's thin hand instead. He stared as long fingers curled reflexively over his.

"Of course I'll try." He stated firmly. "I promise. I don't know what good I'll be, but..."

Marge smiled.

"If you try, you'll be doing more for him than any other person in his life. Thank you, Christopher." 

**End**

Blah blah.

Yeah, just a sappy romance flick between Chris and Harry. I liked the idea that Harry was beyond being 'Good' now, and could only aim for 'Not Evil'. I also liked the idea of Chris being in the position of friend rather than guardian angel - not being able to hear Harry call for him, not being able to heal him, not being allowed to reveal himself to the Wizards or use detectable magic against the mortals.

I had the vague idea that Harry would eventually believe Chris to be imaginary, since the guy only shows up when no-one else is around.

No idea how it would end, though. 


	3. HPTwilight Hedonistic Groove

**So, I don't like Twilight**.

_Really_, don't like it. I think the books were written like a twelve year old girl's first foray into fanfiction and I find the 'romance' to be a combination of offensive and frightening.

But my god, I love the potential. I also have a weakness for HP crossovers.

This is one of my many current HP/Twili WIPs and will probably actually get finished and eventually posted on its own.

HP/EC. Harry Potter has fought and suffered and _had enough_. After the war, he dedicates himself to a hedonistic existence. Upon discovering that his ideal partner is a vampire, he gets himself vamped and goes hunting.

**Hedonistic Groove**

Two days after returning from Alaska, grimly determined to maintain his self control in the face of his Singer, a red-eyed vampire came to town.

Alice caught the first glimpse of him coming, of course, but all she could describe was his appearance. Black hair. Red eyes. A lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, one so deep that it might even be visible to a human who stood close enough.

And short, she revealed, after much brow-scrunching concentration. She caught a dim impression of the new vampire speaking with one of the clan, and whoever it was, the new vampire was shorter.

The fact that she couldn't see _who_ was speaking to this new vampire, or when or where it would be was... troublesome.

The very next day, Edward caught a glimpse of him. Rosalie was driving them to school, Jasper and Alice staying home with Esme, to be safe. The red-eyed vampire was sitting on a stone fence by the side of the road, casual-as-you-please, watching the traffic.

He was, Edward was certain, waiting for them. Watching for them.

As soon as he saw the vampire, the other boy's eyes locked with his, studying him right back. The new vampire turned his head as the car drove past, only breaking eye contact when there was no other choice.

In the time it took for Edward to turn his head forward again and glance up at the rearview mirror, the vampire was gone.

"Skinny kid." Emmett rumbled, lounging against the passenger side door though his rapid-fire thoughts gave away his edge of combat-ready concern. Rosalie was in a similar state, though a little more contemptuous. Emmett was ready for a fight, should the need to protect Rosalie or his family arise. Rosalie was of the opinion that the best defence was a decisive offence - she wanted to pull over and gank the new vampire right now.

"But strong." Edward murmured, as much as a warning to Rosalie as a reply to Emmett.

Skinny or not, a vampire who fed on humans was almost always stronger than a vampire who fed on animals.

"There's three of us." Rosalie pointed out unnecessarily, though she made no move to stop the car. She was no fool, after all. They didn't know for certain that the vampire didn't have backup - in the form of other vamps or particularly potent powers.

"I'mna ring Esme." Emmett decided, already dialing her number as Rosalie pulled into the school's parking lot.

"Maybe we should all just go find him." Rosalie voiced abruptly. "I don't like waiting around, especially separated."

"Alice will know if he's planning to attack." Edward countered absently. He was having trouble shaking the memory of the dark-haired vampire staring at him. "And I think... it seemed like he was looking for us."

"You saw it?" Emmett asked, shutting the phone after a quick conversation and joining his girlfriend outside the car.

Edward blinked, a little startled.

"No."

He hadn't even _tried_ to look. He'd made eye contact and his mind had just.. _blanked_. All he could do was stare right back.

He abruptly walked past his siblings before they could press him for more answers he didn't have. As he reached the school building, the sickly-sweet scent of his Singer wafted past him. He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaled sharply and resolved to just not breathe for the rest of the day.

He didn't think he could keep himself from slipping, not with most of his thoughts consumed by the red-eyed stranger.

_Hedonistic Groove_

"Jasper called." Emmett greeted him grimly, as Edward set his tray down next to Rosalie, his back to the wall. "He said he caught the new guy's scent about a half-mile around the house. The bad news is, it's obvious the guy knows where we live and probably knows how many of us live there."

"Something any vampire could grasp if they looked around." Edward murmured back.

"Yeah." Emmett agreed. "But the good news is, Jasper doesn't think the guy was trying to step on any toes. When Carlisle came home for lunch, he did a bit more scouting and he doesn't think the guy has been hunting anywhere within our territory."

"So he's not trying to provoke a fight... yet." Rosalie observed dourly. "It doesn't mean he won't."

"But it's a good sign." Edward countered. "Especially from a human-feeder in a vegan's territory. Few of our previous encounters have been so courteous."

Rosalie shrugged acknowledgment and returned to her magazine. It was a recent favourite, aimed at aspiring fashion designers. Rosalie, it seemed, was bored of _following_ trends.

"Either way, Carlisle is taking the weekend off." Emmett reported, slicing his potato up into naughts and crosses. "He's hoping to get the whole meet-and-greet done as soon as possible. If the guy hasn't approached us before then, we go hunting for him."

Edward wondered at the curl of disquiet in his guts. Alice was the one with the precognitive intuition, not him. So why did the idea of hunting this vampire - of possibly killing him - seem so... nauseating?

_Hedonistic Groove_

"Please, come forward." Carlisle called into the forest. "We just wish to talk - we know you haven't hunted on our territory and harbour no ill will towards you. However, we need to discuss your intentions here."

The darkness shifted and from it stepped the red-eyed vampire.

_Alice was right. He **is** short._

Edward wasn't sure if that was his own thought or Emmett's - it carried a bemused edge to it that was probably the larger vampire's, but he himself was certainly thinking the same thing.

Up close, the vampire was, well... _shorter_ than expected. Since there was a law against turning children into vampires, most vampires gained their 'prime height' during the process of changing species. He himself had gained an inch or two, Carlisle had informed him early in their acquaintance.

Obviously, some people would be shorter or taller than average, but Edward had never thought he'd meet another vampire who could give the petite Alice a run for her money.

Either this guy was turned at a younger age than was strictly legal, or he had some unfortunate genetics working for him.

That said, however... it would be difficult to look at the short male and think 'pushover'.

There was... _something_. Something about the way he stood. The way he stared. The edge to him, invisible but perceptible, ready and willing to strike.

This wasn't just a vampire in the medical sense of the word. This was a predator. A survivor.

This was a vampire who stood alone before seven other vampires and didn't give a damn.

Because he _didn't feel threatened_.

This vampire was dangerous.

"Good evening." The vampire greeted, polite but for a faint curl to his lips. His accent was unexpectedly European - probably British. "I appreciate your disinclination to attack on sight."

Carlisle inclined his head, slightly. "We try not to act without reason." He replied mildly. "Though I admit, your behaviour has some of us growing concerned. You came to town, scoped out the local clan and then apparently sat back and waited."

The black-haired vampire tilted his head a little at Carlisle's tone - calm, yet clearly demanding an explanation. He hummed in thought, ruby-red eyes inspecting each of them in turn.

Edward wondered if he was imagining that the blood-fresh orbs lingered on him. Belatedly, he stretched his mind out to catch a glimpse of what the other vampire was thinking, but found only a vague impression of his own face - the vampire was studying it, looking for something.

Then, a ripple of irritated awareness and a flash of something he couldn't quite catch but which had Jasper crouching and snarling in preparation to attack.

"Down, Rover." The vampire waved a hand idly, expression no longer amused in the slightest. "Your comrade was the one poking about where he had no business - I'm entitled to be pissed about it."

"How do you-?" Alice blurted, then stilled as her powers provided her with an answer. The vampire replied anyway, revealing it for the rest of them.

"I read your files." He responded flippantly. "They're easy enough to access, if you know where to look."

Edward had a hard time believing that the Volturi - for it must have been them - would allow some random vampire to go through their files like that. Which meant this one must be working for them.. but why?

He just barely stopped himself from looking for the answer, remembering just in time how vicious Jasper's reaction had been.

The vampire had known he'd been looking. Had felt strongly enough about it that Jasper had been ready to react with deadly force.

"Anyway, you can relax." The vampire continued, oddly intent gaze sliding between them. "I only came here to find something. Once I have it, I'll move on."

"What are you looking for?" Edward blurted, earning himself a lightning-fast look from his sire.

Red eyes studied him again, narrowed and analytical and just a little bit... something...

"...The reason I went and got myself vamped." The boy replied cryptically. "I'll let you know when I find it."

The boy stepped back, blinking deliberately and affecting a cheerful demeanor that did nothing to hide the moment of desperate intensity he'd just exposed.

"So, don't mind me. I'd no more poach on your territory than I'd enter a stranger's home and raid their kitchen. Even _if_ you weirdos don't actually eat anything in your metaphorical fridge."

He stepped back again and waved.

"My name's Harry, by the way. Seems only fair that you know it seeing as I know all of yours."

He smiled, teeth glinting in the gloom.

"I'll be seeing you."

_Hedonistic Groove_

The vampire's words proved true.

He lingered in Forks like an indecisive tourist, drifting from location to location without apparent reason or design. The Cullens caught glimpses of him again and again, though none more so than the three males attending school.

Jasper theorised that the outsider was looking for one of _them_, knowing them by reputation but not name - or perhaps looking for something one of them had, or was professed to have.

Edward, who had been unable to refrain from _reaching_ every time he glimpsed the boy, got the distinct impression that it wasn't as complicated as that.

All he ever saw, when he managed to see anything at all, was an intense study of their faces, their voices and their scents.

His own was most often the one being studied, often with an uncomplimentary tirade accompanying it, proving the other vampire remained aware of when his mind was being read and _did not_ like it.

He wasn't sure if the reason he saw himself most often was simply due to circumstances, or if the boy was narrowing down his search. Having an acerbic soundtrack to his mental snooping was making him increasingly embarrassed, however, so he made a conscious effort to try and limit himself. Even his family, who knew he could hear their thoughts and assumed that he was always listening, never reacted so strongly - possibly because they couldn't _detect_ it.

The new vampire though, this 'Harry'... peeking in on his thoughts felt increasingly voyeuristic, with every attempt met by the venomous fury a woman peeked upon in the bath might have.

And, for some reason, Edward found himself increasingly of the desire to do, well... _damage control_. He didn't like that every time he saw himself in the other male's mind, it was painted with thoughts of retribution and violence. He didn't like to see himself beheld as a monster.

A couple of weeks later, he thought his hard-won restraint might be working - just a bit. Jasper had mentioned that the storm of emotion the smaller vampire carried around was lightening a little. Less grief and hatred and rage, more speculation and curiosity - even a smidgeon of hope.

It certainly soothed Jasper, the war-hardened vampire moving a little easier now that the stranger had apparently stepped down from combat-ready himself.

Alice kept a weather eye on the intruder, but all she ever saw was the boy enjoying his next meal - and apparently the guy tended to lighten his victim's wallet as well as his blood count. What was bizarre was that there never seemed to be a mention of any suspicious deaths or disappearances in the paper. Alice could 'see' the red-eyed vampire feeding (and sometimes, 'other things' with or to the victim) but she never saw what he did after the fact, indicating it was nothing that needed any conscious decision-making.

Perhaps he _did_ have a power - or a deficiency - that neutralized his own venom? Allowing him to feed at will with no consequences?

Edward wanted to ask.

Every time he caught a glimpse of red eyes or a whisk of long hair vanishing around a corner, he just wanted to chase after him. Stop him, talk to him, connect with him.

There was something, just.. _niggling_ at him. He _wanted_ to know this other vampire. It was kind of like standing at the brink of something - something wonderful - and being unable to step into it.

Anticipation, maybe. Like what he imagined a child felt during their first trip to Disneyland, as they saw the iconic skyline for the first time and knew a day of discovery, adventure and fun awaited them.

Whatever it was, it served as a surprisingly potent distraction for him against his singer. He'd spend a class consumed with thought about the mysterious interloper, too preoccupied to remember to breathe and thus spared the enticing scent of the girl beside him. He even managed to smile and converse with her, short incidents of unspoken apology for what he knew would have seemed to be a cruel reaction to her when they first met. He'd just been trying to spare her life, but it would be ungentlemanly of him to allow her to think it was personal, especially now that he had a bit firmer control of himself.

She seemed to appreciate it. Though her mind remained as shielded to him as ever, she relaxed a bit in his presence and was refreshingly quiet compared to most girls her age.

_Hedonistic Groove_

Weeks passed.

The boy started showing up at school, lurking in the treeline when the sun was out, slipping through the building when it rained.

He didn't speak to the Cullens.

Sometimes he appeared in their classes, though. He'd take their teacher by the arm and murmur into his or her ear and the teacher would just smile and nod and let him sit where he liked, _do_ what he liked.

Sometimes the boy spent the class watching whichever Cullen was in the room. Sometimes he got caught up in the lesson instead, focusing on the topic being discussed with a wide-eyed fascination that lead the Cullens to speculate that the vampire was either very young or very old. His manner of dress and speech indicated a modern upbringing, but he seemed strangely unfamiliar with very basic topics - such as simple sciences or recent history.

And there was something else.

Nobody seemed to give him a second thought.

There were speculations and admiration and occasional disdain from the students, but they accepted his presence as if he were any other exchange student - albeit one with stupidly long girly hair and a foreign accent. But it was more than _that_, too.

Emma Beigh, one of the more unpleasant girls in the school, gave him her paintbrush with a happy smile after he asked for it. Michael Ricket, an average sports 'star' of Forks and one of the loudest critics of the 'new British fag', cheerfully agreed to quit all the teams he was on, after Harry had a quiet chat with him.

In fact, anyone who could or did seem to stir up trouble against him seemed to exist in a happy 'syrup' state. 'Syrup' was the closest description he and Jasper could agree upon, in regards to their emotional and mental sense.

Sweet, thick.

Artificial.

The trespassing vampires had the power to affect people's minds. Whatever he was looking for, it seemed increasingly unlikely that they could do anything to stop him from taking it.

_Hedonistic Groove_


	4. HPTwilight Childe

I've always wanted to read a story where Harry is raised by the Cullens, but too often the childhood years are either skimmed or skipped entirely in order to get Harry to 'Hogwarts age'. This is my attempt to fix that, and although Hogwarts will be involved, it will always be secondary to the Cullen family.

_**Note: This story is on indefinite hold. There are several scenes over in my junk drawer (see Bio) if you're interested. If you'd like to continue the story, feel free - just let me know so I can check it out!  
>Leave a review or PM me if you want the cliff notes of what the plot was going to be for this. <strong>_

_**Childe**_

The vampire was something of a rarity.

Bedraggled, red-eyed and homeless, he was old enough to know how to avoid the regular cullings by the Volturi and Wizards alike, yet had never quite managed to establish himself the way other vampires did. He was the Fagin of the modern age, a stinking street rat who gathered power just as quickly as he lost it - mostly to his own appetite. He always seemed to be running from a meal too messy or a witness too many.

It was a miserable way to spend forever.

On this muggy evening, however, it seemed that his luck was turning. Over the stench of the many dumpsters in this back alley of London old-town, carried a fresh and tantalising scent.

A young human, bleeding heavily. The damage was recent, the blood too fresh for a corpse. He'd make a delicious snack, allowing the night hours to be navigated with a bit more focus than usual.

Moments later he pulled the boy from underneath some split, stinking rubbish bags, carried him over to a water spout on the wall and tore it open to wash off the worst of the mess. With the waste mostly gone, it was clear that the kid had been beaten almost to death. Part of his skull was misshapen and purpling patches of skin were everywhere. Blood was leaking from pretty much everywhere too, but a largish cut on the inside of his upper arm seemed promising. To drink from an open wound was the best way to disguise a bite. Carefully, he gripped the skin on both sides and tugged until the tear widened, blood spilling out.

Mouth watering with hunger-induced venom, he lifted the boy and drank.

He moaned.

It was so _good_. The blood was so pure, unclogged with the chemicals and fats so common to modern humans. There was something else, too... a power that made his body tingle with the promise of strength and speed and... and...

He broke away, dropping the cooling body and scrabbling frantically at his mouth.

"Fuck-_fuck!_" He whimpered, crawling over to the tap (still gushing water) to try and rinse his mouth out. Inside him, the power continued to grow. It was painful now, burning his mouth and his throat and his stomach.. oh god, his _guts_...

He moaned again, this time in terrified denial as his body began to smoke from the inside. Acidic black death curled out of his mouth and nose. His throat degraded before the moan could become a scream and his whole body thrashed as it was torn apart, atom by slow atom.

By the time Albus Dumbledore arrived, prompted by screaming wards, there was only a damp pile of ash near the cold, dead body of the boy-who-lived.

"Oh... no." The old wizard breathed, kneeling in the muck to gently touch the boy's icy, waxy skin. "Oh Harry. I'm so sorry."

To his credit, there was nothing in Albus Dumbledore's mind at that moment but genuine grief for a life lost far too young. Neither the prophecy nor Harry's place within it would surface for many hours yet.

Here and now, the old man simply felt guilty for his failure to protect an innocent child.

It wasn't until he pulled himself together enough to cast the required spells (their world, not to mention the aurors, would demand to know who had taken their boy-hero from them) that he realised what exactly _had_ happened.

The pile of ash behind him wasn't any old murderer who'd faced Lily Potter's lingering protection and come off worse. It had been a _vampire_.

And Harry... Harry had been inundated with venom _prior_ to dying. A cautious, hopeful spell showed the venom to still be moving.

Harry wasn't _dead_, he was _changing, _a fact that brought both joy and dread, as the old man lifted the boy into his arms and stood. He had to make a quick decision now, just as he had had to seven years ago. Hopefully this time, his decision would turn out for the better.

It was time to seek out an old acquaintance, and pray the pacifist vampire still followed his ideals.

Carlisle Cullen.

_Childe_

See the top of this page if you'd like to read more.


	5. HPSupernatural Education

Something that's been kicking around in my head for awhile. Hopefully a little different (the Winchesters won't be going to Hogwarts), a little silly and a little fun.

_**Note: This story is on indefinite hold. There are several scenes over in my junk drawer (see Bio) if you're interested. If you'd like to continue the story, feel free - just let me know so I can check it out!  
>Leave a review or PM me if you want the cliff notes of what the plot was going to be for this. <strong>_

**The Education of Dean Winchester**

August 2nd.

The boys are inside, asleep after a grueling day of deliberately hard exercise. All the doors and windows are shut tight. Any crack or crevice has been blocked. Half a dozen wards have been meticulously laid out, painted or carved - just because they haven't worked before is no reason to stop trying.

John Winchester sits on the porch with a shotgun in his lap, a handgun holstered under his arm and a sense of determined resignation.

Hours pass.

Eventually, his patience pays off. In the pre-dawn light, a small form appears on the western horizon, heading straight for him.

It gets bigger as it gets closer, revealing itself to be exactly what he expected.

An owl.

_Another_ owl.

Every year, a different owl. Every year, bearing the same letter.

Every year, he had purified and burned the letter and owl both.

He'd shot the first two owls, but he'd learned since that it was unnecessary. The birds were tame, or enthralled. They'd come close at his command, sit calmly on the chair beside him and barely have time to flare their wings before he snapped their necks.

When the owl landed on the railing of the porch before him, Jon carefully put the shotgun down and stepped closer to do it again.

And paused.

The writing on the exterior of the letter - always addressed to Dean Winchester, always unnaturally precise about his location, always in emerald green ink - was now brilliant, bloody red.

He muttered two separate blessings, threw pinches of holy water and salt and thyme, fennel and elder.

The owl clacked its beak irritably and shifted to shake its claw - the claw to which the letter was tied - at him. There was no other effect.

Slowly, he untied the letter, eying the bird carefully. It just rustled its feathers and waited, like all the others.

Still muttering blessings under his breath, he opened the letter.

And swore.

_We don't need no (Education)_

Albus Dumbledore was a busy man.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was normally the least of his concerns. A great deal of the paperwork was automated and McGonagall valiantly took up a great deal of his extra duties so that he might continue to work in the world of politics, enabling him to protect and affect Hogwarts from without as well as within.

But, every so often, things came along that simply could _not_ be handled by the deputy headmistress. Things like basilisks causing frightened parents to demand their children return home, or young Miss Wisteria's remarkable plan to - _ahem -_ 'obtain the seeds' of various wealthy, attractive or notable young wizards to use at her leisure later in life.

The young lady was rather remarkably open minded, seeking the best of the best regardless of blood status - and, often, regardless of consent. A pioneering spirit, seeking not to do harm but simply an ideal crop of children for herself.

It had been such a shame to see her go.

Those type of incidents were, however, comparatively rare. They cropped up a little more often since Harry Potter came to Hogwarts, but that was to be expected.

To have one crop up over the summer was even rarer, but unfortunately one had - and it couldn't be handled by anyone but himself.

Sighing and treating himself to a lemon drop, he opened the letter McGonagall had dumped on his lap during breakfast. It was written on muggle paper, the thin sort with frightfully sharp edges.

He'd written an article once, on paper vs parchment and what it said about muggle/wizard relations. A pity no-one had cared.

The steady sucking noise of an old man working on hard candy slowed, then stopped, as the wizard worked his way through the compact handwriting of a concerned muggle parent.

Concerned and _angry_.

"Winchester..." He hummed, leaning back in his chair and staring into space. "Winchester. Where have I heard that name before?"

The space in his office didn't deign to reply.

Shrugging, he continued reading. By the time he'd finished the letter, he quite understood.

Dean Winchester must have been one of those unfortunate potentials who was denied their place in Wizarding Society by frightened, well-intentioned parents.

Frightened, well-intentioned parents who were then slapped with legal action five years later and often came off the worse for it. Not to mention their _children_, who were bound by all the laws of Wizards with none of the training to compensate for it.

It was a sticky area, made even more complicated by certain restrictions on what Wizards could do about it. They were held responsible for the actions of all magic-users by the Muggle government, so they _had_ to punish the ignorant and uneducated. But, they were also forbidden by the same Muggle government to impose certain things - such as magical education - without the consent of the very muggle parent.

Sticky, tricky, and other things ending in icky.

But not, perhaps, insurmountable. Not this time. Angry and confused or not, John Winchester had at least - finally - written back. And Dean had a year's grace until... certain unpleasant repercussions.

Gracefully, the old wizard enchanted a new piece of parchment before scribing a short reply and handing it over to his phoenix.

"Would you be so kind as to deliver this to a Mr John Winchester? I would like to get this out of the way quickly."

Fawkes opened one eye and farted. The small belch of flame barely singed the golden perch he was on, but Albus frowned regardless.

Sometimes, his friend and companion could be embarrassingly indecorous.

"Please?" He tried, conjuring up some raw meat. All the taste, none of the substance. Phoenixes were carnivores - another little-known fact - and could eat three times their weight in meat just as easily as they could fast for three years.

Living with humans (and house elves) as he did, Fawkes was getting a little pudgy. Not that Albus would ever say as such. He'd spent far too long growing his beard to lose it to a phoenix's offended temper.

A low, discordant sound preceded the bird ungraciously stirring himself to action. His long, swan-like neck stretched out so he could take the letter in his beak, before the entire bird vanished in a ball of flame.

Over 10,000 kilometers East, a bird wreathed in fire appeared out of nowhere, only to be promptly shot.

And so began Dean Winchester's magical education.

–

See the top of this page if you'd like to read more.


	6. HP FinalFantasyX Plan B

This has been in the works for a long time. It won't be finished for an even longer time. After years, there's still only 2 solid chapters and a mess of scenes stuffed in a file. But, one day...

This is pretty focused on the HP more than the FFX. Harry is really the only HP character, but he might come off a little Mary-Sue. Just a heads up, because he'll probably stay that way. This is one story where it's "Harry and the adventure in Spira" rather than an equal blend of ideas.

HP - right at the tail of book 5, before Summer. (Popular time period for me, apparently.)  
>FFX - about two years before the events in the game.<p>

No ships.

**{}**

Harry paced three times back and forth, his need focused firmly in his mind.

He hadn't told anyone of his plans. He _knew_ it was stupid, he didn't need Hermione telling him that to his face.

But he was _fifteen_. The sole reassuring adult in his life had just died in front of him, and then the most powerful wizard in the world had looked at him gravely and told him the fate of the world rested on _his_ thin, barely-educated shoulders.

He was terrified.

'_I need something – anything – that will help me defeat Voldemort.'_ He thought frantically, over and over.

He was shocked when the door actually appeared. Even then, couldn't quite believe there would be a solution inside.

How could the castle provide the impossible, after all?

But, the desperate can find hope in the smallest of things and as he opened the door, the young wizard _hoped_... 

**Plan B**

When Harry awoke, the very first thing he saw was beautiful.

A shimmering wisp of colourful energy drifted past his eyes, rising up and twisting as though it were alive.

He blinked and squinted, trying to bring the fuzzy thing into focus. Of course, he failed. Stifling a sigh, he felt around himself for his glasses. If this was a remnant of one of Fred and George's pranks...

His fingertips found only sand, moist and coarse, littered with small rocks.

He sat up with a start, lurching to his feet as he realised he wasn't in his dorm at all. His breath became sharper, fear chilling his blood. Had he been captured? Taken from Hogwarts? Here to be murdered like Cedric?

He huffed a bitter laugh.  
>No. There was no way they'd do him the courtesy of a quick, painless death.<p>

He spun around, but all he could see was stretches of grey. He was in a medium-sized room of some sort – probably stone based on the colour. The air was chilly and several more of the odd glowing things had appeared and were floating about aimlessly.

Gingerly, he waved his hand at one closest to him. He experienced a brief moment of warmth and colour and _voicessensationemotion_ before the energy thing winked out and the feeling vanished with it.

Feeling a little guilty (had he killed it?) he stepped away from the others and towards the wall.

Ten minutes later he'd felt his way around the whole damned room and discovered that he seemed to be in some sort of cave. Rough and jagged rock surrounded him on all sides, with the exception of what felt like a cave-in in one area. No death eaters had appeared to either mock or torture him yet, so at least something was going well.

Assuming they hadn't dropped him in here to die a slow, lonely death of starvation of course.

Some more glowy things came through another wall, brightening the area a little. As he turned to watch them, a blob of colour on the floor caught his attention. As he walked closer, its shape became clearer and memory hit him hard.

This thing.. this thing had brought him here!

There had been one in the room of requirement... he had opened the door expecting to see books or maybe some kind of magical weapon but there had only been an odd platform on the ground.

He couldn't see this one as clearly, but it was similar enough to know that it would look the same. Made of red stone, unfamiliar gemstones and pieces of glass, the platform - the _device -_ had glowed softly under his fingertips. When he stood on it, arrows on all four sides had lit up before the world _twisted_ around him.

And then.. he'd woken up here.

"Great." Harry finally said out loud, now that he was reasonably sure there was no-one to hear him. "So, I found something that might help.. except it seems to have helped by dropping me in a room with no exit. Bloody brilliant."

Sighing, he straightened and looked around again. It was damned frustrating not to be able to see properly. He hadn't managed to find his glasses. He had a horrible suspicion that when the.. thing.. had transported him, he'd jerked enough for them to fall off his face. They were probably lying on the floor back in Hogwarts, gathering dust.

The Prophet would probably run an article about how he'd fled the Wizarding world a coward, leaving only his glasses behind. His lips quirked as he imagined the Quibbler running an article about how nefarious puffskeins had eaten him alive in a drastic evolutionary leap. 

He didn't even have his wand. He'd leant it to Neville as the boy had some projects in the greenhouses he needed to pack up to take home over the holidays. Feeling guilty over Neville's wand being lost in the first place – his Father's, no less – he'd willingly offered his own before sneaking off to try and find a 'magical' solution to his problems.

"Merlin, I'm such a dolt." He berated himself. "If it were that easy, Dumbledore would have managed it ages ago."

Of course, he considered, that was assuming Dumbledore knew exactly what the room did. He entertained himself briefly with the mental image of Dumbledore pacing outside the room of requirements, asking for a chamberpot that could destroy Voldemort.

Looking down, he eyed the device suspiciously. It had brought him here.. shouldn't it be able to take him back?

Taking a breath he stepped on to it, eyes closed in anticipation of that horrible sensation of _wrong_.

Nothing happened.

Opening his eyes, he looked down to see that only two arrows were glowing – one to the right of him and one to the left. One arrow pointed towards the cave-in whilst the other pointed towards the stretch of wall opposite it.

"Figures this one would be broken." He muttered grimly.  
>He was shifting his weight to crouch down and get a better look at it when his right foot brushed the right arrow.<p>

With a snap of energy and a flash of light, he found himself in another room.

Jumping off the device, he turned a full circle to take in the new area.

Smooth grey walls on all sides, except for a black hole which could be a tunnel or another room. He couldn't be sure because there were only two glowy-things here and they didn't shed much light.

Experimentally, he stood on top of the device again. This time, only one arrow lit up – the left one.

"Back the way I came?" He wondered out loud. Glancing between it and the doorway, he decided to explore the doorway first. He had had bad experiences with cave-ins.

Stepping cautiously and using the wall as a guide, he walked into the darkness. The floor ramped upwards and after a few moments he could perceive a dim light ahead.

The wall at his side suddenly curved away from him and he stopped, squinting around as he tried to make out his surroundings. Four flames burned around the edges of the room, making it easier to accomplish. He could just make out the pit in the centre, criss-crossed with many white things – ribbons? Ropes? Tapes?

He carefully moved closer until he was standing on a silk cloth that ran down into the pit, underneath a blob of colour and out again on the opposite side.

He nearly jumped out of his skin as a voice boomed out of nowhere.

"**For what purpose have you sought ****Yojojimbo****?**"

Narrowly stopping himself from tumbling into the pit, he raised his eyes to a glimmer of light in the air. As he watched, the glimmer became a person – or at least the shape of one. Probably a man, based on the voice and the broad shoulders.

Remembering what he had been searching for in the RoR and praying this was what he was meant to find, he answered honestly.

"I'm looking for a way to defeat a great evil." He replied, fighting not to squint at the guy – he knew it wouldn't make much difference and he didn't want to look silly.

"**Why?**" The voice demanded.

Harry swallowed.

"Because I have to." He confessed. "Because he – because everyone – is convinced that only I can. Even though he's so much older.. so much more experienced.. they won't even try! And if I fail, they won't dare to fight him."

"**Why do you come to **_**me**_**?**"

Harry lowered his head.

"Because I need help." He whispered. "I can't do it by myself. I'm not powerful enough.. not good enough. I'm.. I tried.. I'm just trying to find help."

There was a heavy silence. Harry didn't dare look up, not with his eyes stinging as he fought back tears. To have gone from desperate terror to fledgling hope to utter disappointment.. if he was turned away now, he didn't know what he would do.

"**Once, I would have helped you simply because you are worthy of help.**" The man spoke at last. "**But now.. I am bound by the spells holding me here. Cursed to permit my services only in exchange for something else. Unless a summoner can give me at least 250,000 gil, I turn them away.**"

Harry slumped, grief stabbing through him. If only he'd known! Surely he had enough in his vault... surely the goblins could have changed his gold to whatever currency 'gil' was. If only the portal back worked, he could return and get enough to buy this being's help.

"I don't have any money." He whispered in defeat. "If I could find a way home.. But until I can, I have nothing."

There was another silence. Harry looked up just enough to see the glowing feet of the man standing before him. He hadn't been left alone yet.

"**I am bound...**" The man said slowly. "**To give only in exchange for something else. Commonly, I demand gil. I am permitted, however... to demand something else of greater value.**"

Harry looked up, barely daring to hope. From what little he could make out, the spectre seemed to be contemplating.

There was a ghostly bark and a large dog appeared to circle around the man's feet lovingly.

Harry's throat caught at the reminder of Sirius, even though this dog was golden-bright in colour and more burly than the skeletal grim-like dog Sirius had been.

"**I have a deal to offer you, young Summoner.**" The man proposed at last. "**A great task. Complete this for me and I shall give you my blade against your enemies and my aid in returning you to your world.**"

"My world?" Harry repeated in shock. The man was silent.

"What.. what is this task?" He managed to ask.

"**There is a great evil in this world, known as Sin. A monster that can be stalled for only ten years before returning.** **Other Summoners seek to defeat it but none seek a way to **_**end**_** it. In exchange for my services, **_**you**_** must do what they cannot. You must find a way to destroy Sin – forever.** **Once this task is complete, my services shall be yours.**"

Harry didn't know what to think. It sounded like he was being given another impossible task – worse, in fact, than Voldemort.But.. this was the only glimmer of hope he had. The man standing before him might _look_ like a ghost, but Harry wasn't a wizard for nothing. He could _feel_ the power in this room.

Besides, it looked like it was his only chance at even getting home in the first place.

Also, he couldn't help but feel a bit of hope at the fact that the great evil of _this_ world _didn't know his name_. Unlike Voldemort, it didn't have a hate on for him before he was even born. There was (hopefully) no prophecy here to focus its attention on him.

Harry could just quietly work out a way to destroy it without being hunted down every second of the day, then do it (somehow) and go home.

He had to have hope. It was, after all, _all_ he had right now.

"Alright." He said aloud. "We have a deal."

The man nodded his head. The dog yipped, chased its tail, turned and lunged at him.

Before he could blink, the shadowy form hit his chest hard and vanished. A trickle of warmth – like the glowy thing but a hundred times stronger – slinked around his heart and settled in. If he concentrated on it, he could almost _feel_ the eager mind of the dog tugging at his own for attention.

"What..?" He started in confusing, looking up and then double-taking as he realised everything was sharp and clear – moreso than when he was wearing his glasses!

The man – now very clearly a man, wearing pants but no shirt and positively rippling with muscles – smiled at him. It wasn't a nice smile.

"**I am not alone. Daigoro must also be bargained with.**" He said simply.

Harry focused inwardly again but couldn't make anything out but an eager, very dog-like mind brushing against his own.

"What.. what does he want?" He asked the man.

"**A piece of your life.**" The man answered bluntly. "**That he may live.**"

Harry blanched. That sounded very bad. Like, necromancy-bad.

The man laughed. It wasn't any kinder than his smile.

"**Fear not, young Summoner. He would take but a decade of your life and in exchange he offers protection and companionship. As young and delicate as you are, you would do well to accept - or the fiends of this world would end your life long before the deal ever could.**"

Harry considered it, his mind brushing against the dog again. It was almost reassuring. The mind within was open and uncomplicated – genuine in both it's eagerness to live and willingness to protect him in exchange.****

And assuming he survived all this _and_ defeated Voldemort.. Wizards had longer lives than Muggles, right?

"Sounds fair." He said cautiously, hoping he wasn't making some stupid deal Hermione would chastise him for later on. "Ten years of my life in exchange for ten years of protection?"

The man sneered.

"**Ten years of your life in exchange for life-long protection**" He disputed. "**However long – or **_**short**_** – that life may be.**"

Harry drew a deep breath and shrugged.

"Fair enough." He said simply. "Deal."

There was a joyous bark that he heard both within and without. Light surged out of his chest and curled towards the ground to form into a living, breathing dog. But this was no golden hound.. the dog's fur was now a reddish brown and covered a form that was almost the size of a lion. Vicious fangs – not unlike a sabertooth tiger – jutted out of its muzzle and streaks of glowing gold curled through its fur and hummed with magic. A flex of its paws demonstrated viciously sharp, curling black claws not unlike a cat's.

The undeniable killing machine looked up at him and woofed, thick tail wagging madly, black eyes bright with adoration.

Harry couldn't stop himself from kneeling and running a hand through its fur, much to its obvious enjoyment.

"**It is done.**" The man proclaimed. "**Now go and complete the task I have set you. Seek other Fayths, if you wish. They would likely choose to help you in your task.**" Suddenly, his face darkened. "**But DO NOT seek the final summoning!**" He boomed. "**For this leads only to Sin's defeat and will void our contract!**"

Harry nodded, only half-understanding what the man meant. Fayths? Were they beings like this one? What else did he have to offer that he hadn't already given or promised?

As the man started to fade, Harry remembered to ask something.

"Wait! Do you.. do you know why my vision is better? Did you do something?"

The man faded, but his voice echoed through the room.

"**As the Summoner's strength improves the Aeon, so too does the Aeon's strength improve the Summoner. Now, begone! Return only when your task is completed.**"

Then the voice faded too and the flames went out.

Left in darkness, Harry reached a hand down to Diagoro, who obligingly moved closer.

"I hope you know the way out, boy." Harry said into the darkness, before slowly turning and feeling for the wall to guide him out. Absently, he hoped the dog _was_ a boy and he hadn't just insulted it via a figure of speech.

A short walk later and he found himself back in the room with the device. After the pitch black of the tunnel, the few glowy-things gave off more than enough light to see by.

They were even more beautiful when viewed with his newly unhindered vision.

He stepped onto the device – waiting a moment as the dog scrambled on with him – then cautiously tapped the only glowing arrow with his foot.

A flash later and they were in the room he arrived in.

He glanced down at the dog.

"Keep going?" He asked half-seriously. He had nowhere else _to_ go.

The dog nodded his head, however, so Harry tapped the arrow forward with a little more confidence.

Another flash of light and they were in a small room with tunnels branching off on three sides. More glowing things swam through the air, moving through walls like they weren't even there.

"Ok, boy." Harry looked down and rubbed the dog's head. "Can you lead me out?"

The dog leapt onto the sand, tail wagging. With a confident bark, it sniffed around the room before turning a circle at one tunnel entrance. As soon as he saw Harry following him, he took off.

Harry eeped and ran after him. 

{}

He barely made it out alive.

Trading ten years of his life for Diagoro' protection was the best deal he'd ever made. If it hadn't been for the aeon-dog-thing, there was no way he would have survived the.. the _creatures_ in there.

He didn't want to think about what would have happened if only he'd accidentally travelled _left_ instead of _right _that first time.

As it was, he broke into the salty night air battered, bruised and bleeding.

'_The three B's'_ He thought dazedly, stumbling as he walked across the beach and fell to his knees. He coughed at the impact and was utterly unsurprised to see a small spray of dark stuff spatter the white, moon-lit sand.

At his side, Diagoro whined nervously. The incredible dog was battered and bleeding himself, limping along with one broken leg. Harry felt incredibly guilty that he couldn't help him.

The creatures in there had been like nothing he'd ever seen before. They were so fast.. so large and so vicious. Without a wand or any means of defending himself, Harry had just tried to stay out of the way as Diagoro had torn into them, unflinching at the damage he took in return. There had been so many, though..

Eventually, (after being slammed into a couple of walls, sliced at and distracting Diagoro from whatever it was already fighting) he'd solved the problem by just _running_ as soon as his dog engaged the monsters. With Diagoro holding them off, he could escape long enough for the dog to disengage and follow him. Diagoro would then lead him back towards the exit until the next time they were attacked.

It wasn't perfect, as both of their injuries could attest to.. but it had been enough.

Assuming, of course, that they didn't just die of their injuries on this random, empty beach instead.

"Fryd dra? Drana'c cusauha rana!"

Ok, maybe not so empty.

Harry looked up, or tried to. His head felt heavy and slow, he could feel his pulse hammering behind his ears. In the darkness, he thought he could make out a body coming towards him.

Diagoro moved in front of him, growling protectively.

Harry tried to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. The last thing he needed was his dog/aeon/protector ripping out the throat of the only help they might find.

"Cred! Y veaht!"

"Ryhk uh!"

There was the sound of someone running and then the unmistakable sound (for anyone raised in the muggle world) of guns cocking in preparation to fire.

"Wait!" He shouted as best he could, the sound thin and strained. "Diagoro, sit!"

The dog growled, then whined, then growled again. Reluctantly, the massive animal backed up and grudgingly did as instructed.

He stayed firmly in front of his summoner, however.

The two men in the darkness seemed to hesitate. They were having some kind of whispered argument that Harry had no chance of understanding.

"Please." He croaked. "He's just trying.. to protect me. He's my.. aeon."

There was a sudden silence.

"Aeon.." One of them repeated softly, before yammering sharply to his friend. One word that was repeated a couple of times seemed to be in English – Summoner – which was what the man in the cave had called him.

He had thought it was just a name given to any random stranger who intruded and asked for help.. like 'caller' or 'visitor'.

Judging by the way these guys were saying it, it was more of a title.

He looked up again – not having realised his head had dropped – as one of them stepped cautiously forward.

Diagoro kept up a quiet growl in the back of his throat the whole time.

The man – who was wearing some kind of creepy gas mask – held up his hands cautiously and slung his rifle over his shoulder.

"Ed'c ymnekrd. Fa fuh'd rind oui, yc muhk yc ouin aeon tuach'd yddylg ic." He said slowly, calmingly.

Harry had no bloody idea _what_ he said, but the body language was good enough for him. Once again, he wasn't faced with a lot of options.

"It's alright Diagoro." He said wearily, pleadingly. "It's ok." He was dizzy beyond belief, the left half of his body convinced he was falling and he could feel his lungs tighten with the need to cough blood again. He tried to reach inward and think calming thoughts.

It must have worked, because the dog lay down and stopped growling.

Right after that, Harry's consciousness slipped away.

{}

He woke up feeling queasy.

After a little while of lying perfectly still so he didn't throw up, he realised he was _only_ queasy – no longer in the staggering pain he had been before.

Cracking his eyes open didn't reveal the cool white stone of the hospital wing he was hoping for and half expecting. Instead, unmistakably metal beams curved overhead with clusters of multicoloured wires tucked in amongst them. There was a round light(?) directly overhead that glowed softly.

The world moved a little and he swallowed against another surge of bile.

Turning his head to look for a drink of water – or a bucket – showed him to be in a narrow but long room, with beds like the one he was lying on bolted into the ground. There were many shelves on the opposite wall and some odd machinery against the wall on his side. All of it was bolted in and fastened shut.

When the world moved again, rolling from one side to another, he understood why.

Closing his eyes with a groan, he barely heard the door open.

He didn't open his eyes until the soft footsteps were right beside him.

A girl was standing next to him, goggles on her face but a smile that brightened as he showed awareness.

"Hi!" The girl chirped. "I'm Rikku! What's your name?"

Harry drew breath to answer, but as he opened his mouth the world _shifted_ again and all he could do was curl to the side and throw up over the edge of the bed.

"Eww!" The girl – Rikku – yelped, jumping back with lightning reflexes.

Harry choked slightly and coughed, oddly feeling a little better if totally humiliated. He could feel his skin burning red as he spat to get rid of the last lingering liquid and looked up apologetically.

"Sorry." He managed, completely mortified at almost throwing up all _over_ the pretty girl.

To his mild relief, the girl just grinned.

"It's alright." Rikku said forgivingly. "I guess you just haven't got your sea legs yet." She leaned over and pressed a button on the wall. A loud sucking noise came from somewhere beneath what Harry could now see was actually a grill over the floor and jets in the wall angled down and sprayed water. It was some kind of automated cleaning machine.

"Sea.. legs?" Harry asked wonderingly, looking around again. "We're.. on a boat?"

Rikku skirted the water on the floor and pulled herself up to sit on the bed by his feet as the machine shut off with a loud_ clunk._

_"_Subship, actually." She confided. "One of our best ones, though, so don't worry! _The Shelk_ hardly ever leaks!"

Harry swallowed and winced at the foul taste. "Wonderful." He said absently, trying not to think about it too hard. What he really wanted was some fresh air but that wasn't going to happen seeing as-_don'tthinkaboutitdon'tthinkaboutit_.

"Oh, uh, my name's Harry." He introduced himself, wrestling a hand free from the blanket and holding it out for Rikku to shake, who instead peered curiously at it.

"Uh.. nice to meet you?" Rikku tried, slapping his hand with her own.

Harry blinked and chuckled, dropping his hand. A dog whined and Harry pushed himself up to see Diagoro lying on the other side of his bed, staring up at him with reproachful eyes.

"Oh, right." He waved from the dog to Rikku.

"Rikku, this is Diagoro. Diagoro, this is Rikku."

Diagoro snuffled and put his head back down. Rikku twisted to stare at him.

"That's your aeon, huh? How come he's still here? Don't aeons go back when they're not needed?"

Harry frowned a little, following her gaze.

"I don't know." He said honestly. "Diagoro is the first aeon I've ever.. well, met, I suppose."

"Your first, huh? Wow. I _thought_ you looked a little young to be a Summoner. You must've just started, right? Weird place to start, though. There's no temple there."

Harry just blinked.

"What's a Summoner?"

The girl stared at him. Well, he _thought_ she was staring at him. Her mouth was hanging open a little.

"Well.. _you_ are! Aren't you? There's no way that's a normal dog!"

Harry looked down again at Diagoro. How much could he tell this girl? From the way she was talking, the massive magical beast was a fairly normal phenomenon... Logically, she'd then know something about how they came from weird ghosts, right? Hell, she probably knew more than _he_ did. But he didn't want to come off as insane if he started talking about trading bits of his life away for magical ghost-dogs...

"Are you ok?" Rikku sounded anxious. "Should I get the niecih?"

Harry looked up. "The what?"

Now Rikku seemed.. embarrassed? It was tricky to be sure with those goggles covering her eyes.  
>"Oh, uh, I meant healer." She answered evasively. "Cause you look kinda freaked out."<p>

Harry tilted his head a little but didn't press her. Everyone had things they'd rather not tell total strangers.

"Uh, no. I'm fine. A little queasy still, but.." Harry bit his lip and decided to take a chance. The girl seemed much too nice to treat him badly, even if he _did_ come off as crazy.

"Look, to be honest, I'm not really sure if I'm this Summoner thing or not. There was this.. sort of.. ghostly man inside this cave and he spoke to me. He called me a 'Summoner' too, but I thought it was just, you know, a polite word for 'trespasser' or something."

Rikku turned to face him fully, pulling her legs up and crossing them.

"He.. I.. I needed his help, but he was cursed – he said - and couldn't help me out properly. So.. he, uh, offered Diagoro. Said that if I gave him some of my life force, Diagoro would be able to protect me."

He chanced a look up to see how Rikku was taking this so far, but it was hard to tell.

Oh, what the hell? In for a penny, in for a pound.

"I'm not sure if you'll believe me.." He started nervously. "But.. I don't think I'm from this world. The ghost.. he said I'd need his help to get back to 'my world'. He might have just been lying, I guess.. or maybe teasing me I suppose.. but so far I think I believe him. Those creatures in the caves.. the pretty glowing things and the monsters – there's _nothing_ like that where I come from. Even Diagoro-" He motioned to the clearly over-sized, unrealistic dog "I've never heard of anything like him before. I've only known about magic for a few years, sure, but... this is just _too_ different. You know?"

There was a long silence. Harry didn't dare to look up. He sighed, wondering miserably if he had just blown his chance at making a friend in this strange new place, not to mention if he was going to hurl again.

He must've looked particularly pathetic or something, because Rikku leaned forwards and hesitantly patted his arm.

"It's ok." She said softly. "It does sound kinda crazy, but.. well.. I guess it's not impossible, right? Why don't we just focus on the basic stuff and go from there.. yeah?"

Harry looked up, relieved. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Welllll.." Rikku started slowly, clearly looking for something to say. "It sounds like you're a Summoner, at least. I don't know much about Fayths, but-"

She stopped as Harry's head snapped up.

"Faiths? He said I should look for 'other faiths'. Saying I should look for other religions sounds kinda weird though..."

Rikku giggled. "Not faiths, silly, _Fayths_. The person you spoke to? He sounds like one. They're some kind of spiritual beings that Summoners can speak to and call upon. If he told you to look for other Fayths, then I'm certain of it. I don't think they normally ask for something in return though. At least, I'm pretty sure they don't.. then again, only Summoners really know what goes on I guess – only Summoners are allowed to speak to the Fayth."

"Oh.." Harry said softly. "Well.. I guess that's good." He gave a rueful smile. "I don't really have a lot to offer."

Rikku 'hmm'ed' thoughtfully. "So.. how come he told you to find other Fayths?" She asked curiously. Before Harry could answer, the door was opened again.

"Whoops!" Rikku whispered, jumping off his bed.

"Rikku? Hajiid dumt oui hud du lusa eh rana."

"E ghuf, E's cunno! Ed'c zicd, E'ja hajan caah y Summoner pavuna."

Harry swallowed tightly and lent back against the wall. For some reason, hearing them chatter in a language he couldn't understand was making his upset stomach even more so.

Whatever argument they were having, Rikku seemed to win it and she skipped back over as the older man also approached. Harry looked up at him and blinked. He didn't even notice himself leaning forward a little as he studied the other man's eyes, absolutely fascinated.

The pupil was.. swirly..

...How did that even _work_?

Rikku's nervous giggle snapped him out of his daze and he felt himself blush a little as he sat back.

"Sorry." He apologised instantly. "I've never.. your eyes are _incredible_."

To his surprise the other man actually laughed.

"That's not what I expected you to say." He replied, his voice a smooth baritone. "Have you never met an Al Bhed before?" He picked up an instrument that looked very similar to a muggle doctor's pressure cuff and fastened it to Harry's arm with leather ties instead of velcro.

"No." Harry answered honestly. "One of my professors has yellow eyes like a hawk and I know a girl who can actually change the colour of her eyes.. but that pupil-thing? That is so wicked."

Both the man and Rikku stilled suddenly and Harry twigged that perhaps this world wasn't up with the same slang as his own.

"It means 'really amazing'." He added quickly, gratified to see both of them relax again. Rikku grinned.

"That's cool!" She opinioned. Clearly they _did_ share _some_ colloquialisms

Now Harry gazed curiously at her goggles, though he wasn't so uncouth as to ask her to take them off. She seemed to guess what was on his mind, though, and yanked them off to blink equally-swirly green eyes at him.

Her grin widened as Harry made no effort to hide his fascination.

"I wore the goggles before because I thought you might be uncomfortable if you knew.. well, y'know."

Harry tilted his head in incomprehension.

"You thought I might be scared?" He asked, moving his arm automatically as the doctor finished checking his blood pressure and loosened the cuff to pull it off.

"Oh, right!" Rikku put a finger to her mouth in remembrance "Not Yevon-raised. I forgot."

The doctor raised his head, surprised blue eyes flickering between them.

"Oh? I was under the impression our guest was a Summoner?" He directed mostly at Rikku. The girl chuckled, leaning against the foot of his bed.

"A baby Summoner." She teased. "Harry says he wound up in the caves by accident – he didn't even know what a Fayth _was_ until some 'glowy guy' gave him an aeon!"

Harry ducked his head in renewed embarrassment The doctor chuckled but shook his head at the girl. "Pa hela, Rikku. Nobody knows everything." He turned his attention back to Harry.

"Still, I've never met a Summoner not raised and trained by the Temples. I don't suppose the Fayth told you _why_ he was giving you an aeon?"

Though he spoke casually, Harry detected an underlying tension to the question. Harry hesitated a moment as he tried to decide how honest to be about this. He didn't know anything about Sin. Who -if any – its supporters were... He could be telling exactly the wrong people about his mission.

"Something about Sin." He answered, would-be casual himself. Neither the Doctor nor Rikku responded to that and the air became suddenly tense. The doctor's mouth was tight and harsh but Rikku looked more like she couldn't decide between anger and tears.

Harry had a very nasty feeling he'd just said the wrong thing to the wrong people and was soon going to be ejected into the ocean.

Thinking about it made his stomach leap into his throat again and he literally swallowed back another round of vomit – which just made him feel even _more_ sick.

The doctor noticed his greening face and gave him a sympathetic smile.

"Yes, the propulsion is a little faulty. Normally _The Shelk_ is not so bumpy a ride. Rikku! Kad res cusa fydan yht y pilgad, bmayca."

"Nukan!"

Rikku ran off, trotting back soon enough with a metal bucket and – thank Merlin – a canteen she filled with water from a tap. Harry set the bucket she passed over next to his legs, before almost grabbing the canteen out of her hands and filling his mouth with enough water to wash away the awful taste. Once it was gone he settled to slowly sipping it, glad to feel his stomach calm a little.

"Well, your pressure is good and your breathing is fine. Your scan came back clear so you can feel free to walk about if you like. I'm putting Rikku in charge, though. She'll let you know where you can go without getting underfoot as well as answer any questions you might have."

Harry nodded his understanding, not really wanting anything but to go back to sleep until they were docked.

As if reading his mind, the doctor continued.

"We're en-route to Home at the moment, but once we get there I'm sure you'll be able to catch a ride back to _your_ home – wherever that is. Our boats go all over the place, so it shouldn't be too hard."

Harry glanced once at Rikku before dropping his eyes and nodding. 

If only it were that easy.

There was a crackling, static-y sound – a radio announcement?

Harry's head rose in tandem with the other two, even though he didn't understand what the voice was saying.

"_Hajiid rana, fa'mm pa tulgehk eh uha ruin. Ymm ryhtc du cdydeuhc. Ur, yht ev dryd Summoner ryc fugah ib oad, bid res ihtan ykyeh. Cid tuach'd fyhd res caaehk Home._"

"Something about me?" Harry asked, having caught the word 'Summoner'.

The doctor nodded, looking a little awkward. "Tell you what, how'd you like to just take a nap 'till we get there?" He offered, reaching for something. He seemed a little surprised when Harry just shrugged and nodded.

It wasn't just that it actually sounded like a really good idea. Harry knew Madam Pomfrey, after all. When_ she _said 'How about a nap?' it meant 'I am knocking your ass out, so get comfy'. Having little other experience with healers or doctors, Harry just assumed they were _all_ like that.

So he shifted back a little, Rikku helping him move his pillow and dislodge his blanket, as the doctor brought forth a large stick from a side cupboard.

Harry's eyes widened. Rikku burst out laughing at the look on his face. Even the doctor looked like he was trying not to grin.

"Relax, I'm not going to bludgeon you." He chuckled. "Sleep."

The stick sparkled. Harry's mind immediately grew fuzzy, his eyelids heavy and his bed impossibly more comfortable.

He slept.

**End**

If and when Harry understands Al Bhed, I'll just write it in bold. Until then, we get the very annoying skip-to-the-bottom version. I considered putting the Al Bhed in brackets after the lines but decided not to as this both interrupted flow and worked against the reader being immersed in Harry's situation as his isolation is pretty important!

** For those of you who want to know the English translations, despite possible spoilers:**_  
><em>_(I think this is all of them)  
><em>

What the? There's someone here!

Shit! A fiend!

_Hang on!___

  
>-<p>

It's alright. We won't hurt you, as long as your aeon doesn't attack us.

Rikku? Hajiid told you not to come in here.

I know, I'm sorry! It's just, I've never seen a Summoner before.

Rikku! Get him some water and a bucket, please.

Roger!

Hajiid here, we'll be docking in one hour. All hands to stations. Oh, and if that Summoner has woken up yet, put him under again. Cid doesn't want him seeing Home.


	7. HPXmen Kit

My writing folder is just so damned cluttered these days that I've decided to take a leaf from several other authors' books.

This is where I'll put the various ideas/drabble that I have loafing around not pulling their weight. If I ever manage to turn them into proper stories, I'll remove them.

Hopefully, though, someone will enjoy these little scraps.

**HP/Xmen - Kit**

The general stock idea for this fic was that one of the 'clawed' brothers impregnated Lily - who was just a pretty redhead nobody in America at the time. Fast forward to Harry discovering experiencing a traumatic event (Quirrell trying to kill him, or the Basilisk) which awakens his X-gene. Little kitty fangs, claws that slide out from the pads of his fingertips which are short but very finely edged and a low-grade healing factor. Tests to find the cause of this strange 'curse' reveals Harry's non-Potter parentage, which eventually leads to Harry looking for his relations.

He finds Sabretooth, who turns him into the government agency he works for. The agency employ a psychic mutant who can only affect those he touches, and whose specialty is breaking the human psyche. The agency's intent is to break down subjects - human and mutant alike - and build them back up to obey authority unflinchingly. A different type of super-soldiers.

The project is one of many that doesn't really work out and in the end, Harry is one of the few survivors. He's essentially a blank slate who follows orders from anyone he's been assigned to, and Sabretooth is one of them. Sabretooth knows the kid is either his son or his nephew, but enjoys training him to be the kind of killer his brother never really had the stomach for.

But, Sabre being Sabre, he eventually grows bored of a half-feral automaton and offloads him onto his brother with the vague idea of picking him up again once he's 'more fun'.

The timeline is a little twisty. After Origins, but before Xmen3 (or that movie never happened). Xavier has been working with Logan to help him recover his memories, but only fragments have come back. He knows that Sabretooth is his brother Victor, and with his increased awareness, Victor has come back a little from walking-hairball beast to general-asshole beast.

_HP/Xmen - Kit_

"The kid could be either one of ours." Victor drawled. "We've both been captains at one point or another. I gotta admit, though – he looks like you."

Proprietary clawed hands stroked through thick, dark, messy hair. The kid the hair belonged to didn't make a sound – nor did he yank away as most independent teenagers would. Wide green eyes watched him closely – looking for something? Logan didn't know what it was, but he felt strangely lacking.

"'Course" Victor continued "His little kitty claws look more like mine. And he's certainly got my gentle disposition." A fanged grin accompanied the blatantly contradictory description.

"I wouldn't figure you for the whole fatherhood gig." Logan grunted, trying to cover the noise the other x-men were making. And they thought they were stealthy?

"Well, what can I say? He grew on me." Victor returned flippantly. "The first time I saw his itty bitty little fangs tear a man's throat out.. well, that was love right there."

Logan glared and Victor's smirk widened.

"Tell you what, Kit." Sabretooth addressed the teenager who hadn't shifted his gaze once from Logan. "Why don't you show your Uncle – or Daddy – over there just what you can do. What I taught ya."

A shifting of lithe muscles was all the warning Logan had and he yelled it to the rest of the team even as the kid blurred into motion.

He definitely had Sabretooth's grace and speed – maybe even more – but it wasn't welcome news when that speed was putting him within striking distance of Jean.

Logan dove forward to stop the kid but missed by inches. His fingers brushed the kid's shirt but he was currently unwilling to unsheathe his claws and stop him terminally.

He had to trust that the X-men – who had more experience in fighting to a _stop_ and not to _death_ – to handle themselves.

Jean shouted with pain as a swipe of slender fingers resulted in a burst of blood and four thin lines sliced through her suit and skin just over her breast. She jerked back to dodge the follow-up swipe at her throat and raised a hand in frantic defense.

The kid froze in place but almost instantly let out a sound of such animalistic terror that – in shock – Jean dropped him right afterward.

Logan swore and dove again to catch the kid as he shook off whatever had frightened him and lunged again for their telekinetic. This time he was successful and wrapped thickly-muscled arms around the kid's torso, crushing him back into his chest.

Behind him he could feel the heat of Cyclops' fight against Sabretooth and feel Storm's icy winds buffet them all.

Having the kid this close, squirming frantically to escape, brought his scent unmistakably close.

Holy shit.

Somehow.. without knowing what he was smelling or how the hell it worked.. some part of his hind brain – some _human_ instinct, mutated or not – knew that Sabretooth had spoken the truth.

This kid, somehow, in some way.. was related to him. They were family.

Unable to escape, the kid brought both hands down against any stretch of skin he could find, tearing up Logan's arms and face, back and neck. He jerked his head away to minimize jugular damage but mostly tried to ignore it – the rapid stinging slices healed just as quickly as they were caused, after all. Fortunately, the short brat didn't have the reach or flexibility to do more than nick his eyes.

Jean shook herself and stepped forward to try and calm the boy – telepathically of course. For a split second the boy stilled.

Then he **snarled**, the noise loud – and just as feline as Sabretooth's – and angry. The claws lashing at Logan abruptly vanished as every inch of the body he was holding strained forwards to try and attack the Jean instead.

"Yeah, don't do that again." Logan grunted, locking his arms and seriously considering throwing the kid on the ground and sitting on him.

...Except the kid was so damn _skinn_y – seriously, skin and bones here – he was half-afraid his weight might snap him in half.

"Absolutely" Jean muttered, face drawn and pale. "The poor thing.."

"'The poor thing' has made you in need of stitches." Logan reminded her sourly, eyes flickering to the thin little cuts that were still bleeding (_too much_) before turning himself a little so he could keep an eye on the fight behind him. Cyclops, the pansy, was annoying Sabretooth just enough to stay alive.

"His mind, Logan." Jean just whispered faintly from behind him – as if speaking the words aloud would somehow make them worse. "His mind has been torn apart. I don't think there's anything... I mean..."

Logan growled, deep in his chest. He didn't want to hear the end of that sentence. Jean shut up, but unexpectedly, so did the kid in his arms. With the same abruptness he'd attacked with, the kid fell silent and still.

Sabretooth glanced over and laughed, yellowed fangs gleaming.

"That's how you do it, brother." He advised mockingly. "Gotta _be_ the animal to talk to one."

A rapid, unexpected blow (holy _shit_ when did Sabretooth get that _fast_?) caught Cyclops badly and flung the man away from him – unconscious, or near enough. Storm fell back to cover him, her dark eyes flickering around to check her options. Jean edged out from behind Logan, ready to fight.

But Sabretooth didn't engage them again. He leered, once, at Jean's blood-covered breasts, before turning those oddly mocking eyes back to Logan.

"I think I'll let you handle him for awhile." The bearded man announced lazily. He wasn't even out of breath from the fight. "You've always been the more cuddly of us, little brother. I'll come get him when I'm ready."

With that last promise he turned and bolted out of the room, a smashing of glass heralding his exit.

Cyclops groaned as he got enough wits about him (finally) to get up. Jean hurried over to him and Storm walked over to eye the kid standing placidly in Logan's arms.

Her wary gaze flickered from the kid to Logan himself, clearly curious as to how to handle the feral mutant.

Logan just raised his eyebrows in what he hoped expressed his best 'Are you kidding me/do I _look_ like a babysitter to you?' expression.

Storm rolled her own eyes, just slightly, and turned a look of forced calmness and kindness on the boy.

"Hello, my name is Storm. What's yours?" She asked gently.

The kid was silent, though he watched her like a cat watched its ignorant prey.

"Answer her." Logan grumbled, jostling the kid a little.

The kid swallowed even as Storm shot him a reproachful look.

"Kit." The young, rough voice answered. Logan raised his eyebrows, this time in surprise.

"Cute." He said sarcastically. "People are just gonna tremble when they hear _that_ one. What's your_ real _name?"

The kid just shook his head sharply, the black mess of hair going everywhere.

"Kit." He repeated, his voice strained.

"Logan." Storm and Logan glanced over at Jean, who was propping Cyclops up on one shoulder.

"He doesn't have any other name." She whispered tightly. "And you'll have to watch him. He won't listen to anyone else but you – except Sabretooth. His mind.. he.. he can't be reasoned with. He can't think clearly enough for that. We can ask the Professor to have a look, but... I'm sorry, Logan."

Logan shot her a dark look and experimentally loosened his grip on the kid.

He didn't move, just stood – swaying on his feet a little – and watched the people around him.

_0o0o _Later_ 0o0o_

"Don't be a dick, man." The blond mutant scolded his friend, shouldering past him to smile at the cornered new guy.

"Hi, I'm Bobby." He offered his hand, deliberately keeping it in the air as the hunched kid looked suspiciously at it, then his face, then glanced around as if looking for the catch.

He held out his hand.

Bobby beamed as he carefully took the other mutant's hand and shook it, paying extra attention so he didn't accidentally freeze the kid The other boy's hand was limp and dry in his grip, sliding out as soon as Bobby released him.

Bobby's smile, getting a little stiff now from being held for so long, froze as the newbie finally smiled back.

It was a small, ugly thing and it transformed his wary expression into malicious glee.

Rouge screamed.

"Oh mah God! Bobby! Your _hand_!"

Confused, he glanced at her face – twisting in horror – then down at his hand.

Blood was pouring from it, from five deep slices he could _see_ but he couldn't _feel_.

Shocked, barely comprehending, he looked back up at the younger boy. Had he...?

He had.

And it hadn't been an accident. He didn't look frightened or remorseful at all. He just stood there, smiling.

Satisfied.

Bobby's legs dropped out from under him as he crumpled to the floor, unconscious before he finished falling.

Kit's smile followed him down.

**Or**

_Because I didn't like all the fiddling involved in making Logan know his brother_

"What, you don't recognise him?" The man asked mockingly. "Your brother did. Took one sniff and knew right off that he was family... a little baby Logan. With little baby claws."

Logan's dark eyes shifted from the sneering suit to the skinny kid with scruffy hair. The teenager could have been any one of the many mutants running around Xavier's school, were it not for the fact that he _did_ smell so eerily familiar.

It didn't _mean_ anything, though. With great stretches of nuthin' in his memory, it might just mean he'd known this kid sometime 'before'.

Somehow.

"No? Don't believe me?" The suit asked eagerly. Logan switched his attention back with a vicious glare. He did _not_ like the prick's tone...

A nod from the suit had the soldier standing behind the kid step forward. Light glinted off a knife, pressed against the kid's throat, only just long enough for the mutants in the room to realise it was there.  
>Then the solider slid it through the kid's throat with silken ease, unflinching as blood sprayed out in its wake and the kid choked soundlessly in pain and terror.<p>

Gasps and screams were drowned out by a feral roar and Logan lunged forward, blades sweeping up to kill the murdering bastard.

The coward kept the kid's body between them, one arm threaded through the kid's and one hand fisted in his pitch black hair. Logan barely felt the impact as a mass of other soldiers converged on him, slamming their weight against him, attempting to wrestle his deadly hands away from them.

He didn't see them. He only had eyes for the line of bubbling red in a stretch of pale sweaty skin.. a line that was slowly closing over, leaving unmarked skin behind.

Dimly, he realised that his claws had retracted.

"Starting to believe now?" The suit's voice was as smug as his expression. Logan didn't spare him a glance, his eyes instead tracing the kid's face one more time.

_Could_ it be possible? Could it be? He didn't even know how old he was, whose to say he hadn't had a kid?

Wide green eyes suddenly locked with his and Logan almost flinched at the unspoken pleading in them.

He set his jaw. Trick or not, his kid or not.. this was still _a_ kid who was in the hands of monsters.

"What do you want?" He growled at the suit, finally taking his eyes off his.. the kid.

"Who, me? Oh, nothing." The suit said flippantly. "But I do have orders. I guess one of my bosses doesn't like you. 'Cause I got strict instructions to make sure you knew the kid was yours before I did it."

"Did what?" Logan growled, knowing he wouldn't like the answer.

The suit smiled, drew his gun, turned and fired.

More screams.

The kid's head rocketed back, blood and brain matter splattering the soldiers behind him.  
>The body sunk quietly to its knees then fell backwards, legs bending awkwardly underneath him. Empty eyes stared upwards.<p>

Logan drew a deep, terrible breath.

"Waitwaitwait!" The suit almost _giggled_. "The best bit happens next."

Sure enough, before their eyes, the body jerked and resumed breathing. The bullet hole visibly shrank and the lethal wound vanished without a trace.

Eyes that hadn't even had time to grow glassy blinked blankly up at the ceiling. 

**End**

_In this version, Harry knew which of the brothers was his father but never got the chance to make it known. He went through formal channels to find his father which twigged the government's radar and he was 'escorted' to meet the only relative they had on file, only to get shot and - as a result - loose all memory of Hogwarts, being a wizard, why he was there etc. I also had some thought to having him be a bit more brain damaged. His healing factor was never intended to be as good as either of his potential father's and I figured it was blind (comic book) luck that had Logan experience massive brain trauma and only lose memories._

_As you can probably tell, I could never really nail down what I wanted to happen and how. This was one vague idea that never really got defined._


	8. HP Portal WIP

This story won't just be a retelling of Portal with Harry replacing Chell.

How old is Harry? I'm honestly not sure. I'm in a rut with having him be sixteen... but I don't want him to be post-Deathly Hallows. I'd like him to be 14-15, but some spell knowledge from 6th year is needed, unless I feel like totally giving canon the finger. What do you think?

**Portal WIP**

"Uncle Vernon?"

Harry couldn't help but speak up as he trailed after his uncle. His muggle family had never - ever - brought him to the doctor's before. His only muggle medical experience had been the nurse in primary school, thanks to state-funding. And yet, his Uncle had brought him directly here after picking him up from King's Cross.

...were they here to pick up Aunt Petunia or Dudley or something?

"Don't ask questions!" Came the familiar retort, though it had been a couple of years since he'd heard it delivered so reflexively. Rather more automatically than he would like, Harry's mouth shut, and he followed his uncle into the surprisingly sparse waiting room.

"Dursley here to see Dr. Manning." His uncle said brusquely to the woman manning the desk, a superior addressing an inferior. Vernon's opinion of receptionists ranked well below housewives.

The woman didn't seem phased in the least, extending one immaculately manicured hand - with tiny glittering decorations on each nail - for the drivers license that Vernon grudgingly handed over.

"Thank you." The woman said clearly, professional honey in her voice as her eyes stayed glued to her computer. "Dr. Manning will see you now. Room five."

Harry didn't have time to be impressed at the lack of wait, as his uncle fisted his jumper in hand and dragged him briskly along.

"Shouldn't I wait out here?" Harry asked, stumbling to catch up, shooting an embarrassed glance at the exquisitely made-up receptionist who didn't spare him so much as a look.

"It's your damn appointment, boy." Vernon muttered. "Now shut up and behave yourself."

Vernon was breathing quickly, one of his early warning signs, so Harry didn't push it. They reached room five, the door standing open, and entered.

Inside there was a polished, luxurious desk against the far wall, with a gleaming white computer and monitor resting on top. To the left was a long narrow bed with a white paper-like cover over it. Two chairs sat opposite a plush leather office chair (presumably the doctor's) in which a smiling coffee-skinned man sat waiting for them. He looked almost as well-presented as the receptionist, with a white lab coat barely hiding the richly colored suit underneath, a glittering, expensive looking watch peeking out from under his right sleeve. His hair was in perfect condition, smooth and wavy. His teeth were even and white.

"Ah, Mr Dursley." The doctor smiled. Harry couldn't quite place his accent. "And this must be Harry Potter. Excellent. Let's get started."

The man asked - in a commanding sort of way - for Harry to stand on some scales, to hold out his arm for a pressure test, to look up and follow the light and open wide and say ahh and all manner of doctorly things before Harry - with a sidelong glance at his impatiently waiting uncle - scrounged up the courage to ask what exactly he was looking for.

"Just a general health check, son." The doctor replied absently, scribbling a mile a minute on his clipboard. "Nothing to worry about. Everyone should have one, at least once a year. Now, I understand you have some severe vision problems?"

That stung, a little. Sure his glasses were big and ugly, but he _was_ the youngest seeker in a century at Hogwarts! He could spot a tiny fast-moving object at high speed _and_ in bad weather and he was rightly proud of it!

"I wouldn't say severe" He said at the same time as his uncle blustered something about 'just a shade off normal'.

Harry blinked at his uncle, shocked at the uncharacteristic defense and almost didn't notice how Vernon's meaty hands kept clenching in his pockets, or how his eyes kept darting from the doctor to Harry and back again.

"I'd say it was good, anyway." Vernon blustered. "To have. Whatchmacallit, variance and the like."

The doctor hmm'ed noncommittally and pulled a chart down against the wall, asking Harry to remove his glasses and identify the letters he pointed at with first one eye and then the other, then again with his glasses on. Then he had a good close look with some sort of light-and-magnifying device. Vernon opened his mouth then shut it sharply as the doctor put the device back down, picked up his clipboard and signed something with a flourish.

"Well, he's otherwise healthy." He pronounced, standing a little too close to where Harry was sitting on the bed, but addressing his uncle. "Longsighted rather than shortsighted, which isn't as much of a problem. A little underweight, but nothing a little intensive rest and nutrient intake couldn't fix."

"So it's good then?" Vernon pressed, sounding anxious and stressed and hopeful all at once. Harry couldn't stop himself from shivering. What was going on? This was too mundane, too muggle to be a Death Eater trap. So then why did it feel so... sinister?

The doctor nodded absently and crossed to a small side table to pick a tiny syringe up. He removed the cap and Harry swallowed anxiously.

"I'll sign off on it." The doctor agreed, tapping the syringe a couple of times before squirting a little liquid out of it. He seemed to notice Harry's nervousness as he returned and smiled kindly, making direct eye contact with him for the first time.

"Nothing to worry about," he soothed "just a vaccination you should have gotten last year. It's so small it's barely even a pinch."

Harry swallowed tightly, but nodded. He couldn't help but look away as the doctor wiped something small and cold over the skin of his upper arm, then there was a tiny pinch which spiked sharply before dulling.

"There we go." The doctor murmured absently. Abruptly, Harry coughed. Sagged. His vision blurred and began to tunnel. What was going on? He jerked, the only movement he could summon from his body.

"Shhh... almost there." The doctor said from far away. Something was pressing against his collarbone, lying him down. "Just rest. Thatta boy."

Harry breathed in, heavy and drugged. The last thing he saw was his uncle leaving him without a backwards glance.

He was unconscious before he could breathe back out.

_**Portal WIP**_

**So, Harry kind of swears a bit more than he does in canon. But to be fair, it's a pretty stressful situation. **

**Once again, the prologue is pretty short so I tacked on the first chapter as well. **

**Timeline-wise... Harry got 'signed up' well before Chell. That's all I can say at this point.**

He opened his eyes.

Above him, a curved sheet of glass split open and slid away.

_"Welcome subject six-six-six-six-ksssshhhshhsshhh. Hello and welcome to the Aperture Science Computer-Aided Enrichment Center. We hope your brief detention in the relaxation vault has been a pleasant one. Your specimen has been processed and we are now ready to begin _

_the test proper. Before we start, however, keep in mind that although fun and learning are the primary goals of the enrichment center activities, serious injuries may occur. For your own safety, and the safety of others, please refrain from leaping into acid pits, stepping in front of high-energy pellets, damaging Aperture Science equipment, disobeying operational instructions and all other suicidal activities."_

"What?" Harry whispered as he groggily sat up and swung his feet out of the small, oval-shaped bed. The floor was cold under the balls of his feet but it wasn't until he looked down that he realised that not only was he missing his shoes but that there was some... _thing_... curving under his legs that his weight was resting on, like a bouncy flexible strip of metal.

He touched his face, habitually seeking to resettle his glasses. They weren't there.

He'd always needed them in the classroom in order to read, but as best as he could judge (by staring at his hand and then the low table) his vision was a little less blurry than normal. Maybe even enough to read up close with a bit of squinting, but not exactly sharp. 

He stood up, cautiously putting his full weight onto the weird metal strips. He couldn't make his feet lie flat. It didn't hurt - they flexed up and down - but the metal strip was in the way, forcing them into an unnaturally raised position. 

He looked around. Thick glass walls boxed him in. Harsh white light glared off of the white tiled floors and outside walls. Behind him was the bed.. pod? That he'd just woken up in. As he watched, two curved pieces of glass hissed out from either side, closing it back up. There were small muggle tanks near the head, with black knobs that rotated closed as he watched. It was obviously a piece of high-tech equipment, not remotely magical. There was a small toilet at the foot of it which Harry's bladder definitely appreciated, and next to that was a low table with a clipboard containing a few sheets of paper.

Glancing around, feeling uncomfortably exposed, Harry stepped as close as he could to the toilet and fumbled with his weird orange jumpsuit. It was almost like a prison suit, except the top half and lower half were attached via velcro. There was no fly, so he unfastened the front of the suit and tugged the pants down just enough to relieve himself, which he did as fast as humanly possible.

That dealt with, he fastened up and looked around again. He couldn't see any sort of door so he headed over to the clipboard on the table, noticing anew how his stride felt lighter, like he could leap higher if he wanted to.

Upon reaching the table, he pushed the clipboard aside and sat down, wanting a closer look at the things on his legs. His pants were rolled up and velcro'ed closed, resting just above his calf muscle where the metal strip touched his skin.

No.. not touched...

His fingers trailed around it tentatively, disbelievingly.

It.. it went _into_ him. Into his leg. There was a thick band of some sort of plastic or light metal that curved half-around his leg, but it wasn't a brace like he'd thought at first glance. It was only loosely clipped to the curving metal strip and it didn't seem to do anything. Except, when he tugged at it, it _pulled_ inside, like his bones had extended to the outside of his body.

And his skin just... accepted it. It curled thickly about the intrusion, like the metal strip was nothing more than a large fingernail extending from his body. There was no blood, no infection. It didn't hurt to move, not even a little.

And if this had been done... without magic...

_How long had he been here?_

His chest started to hurt and he hunched forward, fighting for breath. 

"_Anxiety of behalf of the specimen is a common, though inconvenient, side effect of the relaxation vault. We would like to assure you that panicking won't solve anything, except to deplete your limited oxygen supply."_

He looked up and around, finding some sort of camera staring at him from the wall.

"Who are you?" He demanded. "Why am I here?"

There was a slight scratching noise, before the voice replied.

"_Any questions or comments will be addressed at the end of the test. For now, please step through the portal, opening in 3... 2... 1."_

With a noise like an imploding pop, part of the wall – the only part that wasn't glass – vanished into an orange oval. Simultaneously, a blue oval opened in the wall outside his cell and Harry stared from one to the other in stark amazement.

He was starting to doubt his initial impression. This _had_ to be magic.

He looked through the orange portal and saw _himself_, standing in profile. He waved an arm. The other Harry waved the same arm. He turned and looked back at the blue portal, now seeing himself from the other side.

Muggles couldn't do this. They just couldn't. Therefore, it had to be magic.

But...

He looked down, at the smooth and ordered tiles. The pod with gas tanks and electronic monitoring equipment built in. The camera, which was still clinically observing him, one small red light indicating that it was active.

A sudden thought struck him. He knew that top people in the Muggle government were allowed to know about magic. What if they had some sort of secret group, like the Unspeakables, who tested and studied magic people? That would explain how everything could seem so muggle, and yet also contain such an obviously magical portal.

He wasn't sure whether the idea was comforting or not.

He reached towards the portal, fingertips not quite skimming it before he abruptly thought better and whirled to retrieve the clipboard. The sudden movement tugged on the strips embedded in his legs and his right foot slid sharply sideways. He staggered, throwing his weight forward onto the balls of his feet as he fought for balance.

"_Shit_." He swore under his breath, shuffling a bit as he tested the best way to move. He picked up the clipboard and walked a tight circle within the cell. He had a range of about 20 degrees when he pushed off or put his foot down sideways. The metal strip hit the ground first and it had almost no grip whatsoever. If too little of it hit the ground, it either skidded to the side – taking his foot with it – or wrenched painfully at his bones.

So. No sudden turns, then. Not without the risk of falling arse over heels or wrenching his leg, anyway.

He completed the circuit and stood before the orange portal again. Slowly, he raised the clipboard and passed it through. There was no resistance, no weird sounds or smells. He glanced to the right and was only a little surprised to see the clipboard now poking out of the blue portal.

It was... a doorway?

That's it?

Feeling a little embarrassed to have been seen freaking out over what amounted to a magic doorway, he gathered his courage and stepped through.

And almost leapt out of his skin as the voice rang out again.

_"Good. Please proceed into the Chamber-lock after completing each test. First, however, note the incandescent particle field across the exit. This Aperture Science Material Emancipation Grille will vaporise any unauthorised equipment that passes through it."_

Okay. He wasn't sure what 'incandescent' was, but he knew what 'vaporise' meant.

He followed the short hallway around the outside of his cell, at the end of which stood a large, open door preceded by a glittering, transparent screen.

Unlike the orange and blue portals, this thing _buzzed_ with energy, like a giant static shock just waiting to happen.

He tossed the clipboard through and was unsurprised – though nervous – to see it blacken instantly as it fizzled away. Vaporised.

Well. What were the odds they'd knock him out, kidnap him and surgically implant some sort of walking-aid into his legs only to vaporise him now?

He brushed it with his fingertips. It tingled strongly, but didn't hurt.

He stepped through. Aside from a lifting of the hair along his arms, he was unharmed. He entered the small, round room behind it, which turned out to be a lift when the doors slid closed and the whole thing descended.

Seconds later the doors opened to a dimly-lit room. There was a huge black screen on the wall to the left which flickered to life as Harry drew near.

**001 / 020 **and some symbols, most of which were greyed out.

He walked forward, bouncing a little with every step. More lights came on in a room ahead of him, separated from him by glass. There was what looked like a giant red button next to a door with an exit symbol over it. A glass room to the left contained a small square box and in the middle of the room was a slowly rotating... machine? With an audible whine of energy, it _shot_ a blue portal at the wall.

To his right, an orange portal opened. He ducked through it and into the room below, reaching the machine in the middle just as it finished turning and shot again. If there was shooting going on, he wanted to be behind the machine doing it, thanks.  
>Except... now that he was closer, he could see that the machine was just resting on the moving podium. In fact... it kinda looked... portable.<p>

Gingerly, he picked it up.

"_Very good. You are now in possession of the Aperture Science Hand-held Portal Device. With it, you can create your own portals. These inter-dimensional gates have proven to be completely safe. The device, however, has not."_

"Device." Harry repeated quietly to himself. His fingertips trailed over wires and smooth surfaces that felt like stone but were as cold as metal. "Not magic?"

There was another imploding pop and an orange portal opened in the glass room containing the square box.

"_Please place the Weighted Storage Cube on the 1500 megawatt Aperture Science Heavy Duty Super-colliding Super-button."_

It felt like a dream. Or maybe insanity. Muggle machines that made portals? Or, for that matter, a muggle laboratory that kidnapped people only to run them through a high-tech rat maze, complete with giant button?

This couldn't be real. He tried to sense something wrong, something that could prove he was having a really weird nightmare, or was maybe under a confundus charm... but there was nothing besides the oddity of the situation itself. The floor under the balls of his feet was cold and smooth. Every edge of the room was crisply defined. The air was sterile and dry. The machine in his hands was impossibly detailed and weighted. There was a button beneath his first finger and when he squeezed it, the machine kicked back into him as it fired another blue portal at the wall before him.

This was... real. Impossibly, incredibly, real.

"_We would like to remind you that failing to obey operational instructions from authorised Aperture Science personnel, can lead to severe consequences. Please continue testing." _

He looked up and blinked at the camera watching him.

Alright then. Fine. He just had to hang on. He'd probably already been here for weeks, if his legs had been operated on and then healed the muggle way. The Headmaster would know he was missing by now. He'd send Fawkes or Dobby to find him, or an Order member or something.

He just had to play along in the meantime. Maybe try to work out who these people were. What had the voice said? Aperture Science? He would remember that.

The blue portal before him opened into the glass room behind him, so he stepped through and tried to pick up the giant cube.

It was _heavy_! Not to mention awkwardly large. He put the portal device down and tried lifting with both hands. It worked, though he had to lean it against his chest and balance himself _really_ carefully.

He walked back through the orange portal into the main room, dropped the cube, then went back for the device. Once back in the main room again, he placed the portal device on top of the cube and began pushing it over to the giant red button.

Seriously, they kidnapped people to do _this_?

The cube jolted to a halt – the side of the button was raised – so Harry removed the portal device to the floor once more, squatted down and heaved the heavy cube onto the giant red button which depressed smoothly under its weight.

There was a blurt of sound and the door beside him whisked open.

"_Congratulations. Your failure to read the instructional material provided has been noted. For now, please take note of the button on the underside of the __Aperture Science Hand-held Portal Device__. This operates the device's external Emergency Interaction Interface, which has a lifting power far superior to your own."_

"I think I was just insulted." Harry muttered, picking up the portal device and feeling for the button with his left hand. It was wide, flat and barely visible. Pressing it caused the claw at the end of the device to close slightly, energy crackling around it it. He released the button, aimed the device at the cube, and pressed it again.

As easy as a _wingardium leviosa_, the cube lifted into the air. It stuck to the claws like it was magnetised and, amazed, Harry waved it around before placing it back on the button, which re-opened the door.

And this _wasn't magic_?

Holy Merlin.

Redoubling his grip, he continued on.

_Portal WIP_

"He_llo_? Are _yo_u still th_ere_?"

Harry panted for breath, portal gun on the ground at his feet and spattered with blood. His right hand was clenched tightly over his left arm, which had taken the brunt of the attack from the small white robot.

_Stupid stupid stupid! _

Hermione had been right. His saving-people-thing had gotten him into trouble _again. _It was only luck that his first reflex upon seeing the squat little robot had been to run away. If he'd gotten any closer, the resulting spray of bullets would have painted his insides all over the wall. Instead they only clipped his arm and thigh which, whilst unbelievably painful, at least probably wasn't lethal.

But he, idiot that he was, had heard the childlike '_Is anyone there?_' and rushed straight in to help.

_Stupid!_

"Shit." He panted. "Bloody ow."

At least the little bugger didn't seem inclined to come after him. The little red light (targeting sensor, _stupid_) was steady on the wall opposite them and he heard no clacking of little metal claws against the tiled floor.

"Episkey" He gasped, on reflex alone. He was surprised, and relieved, to feel the familiar tug and pull of magically-accelerated healing flesh. He'd tried some magic several rooms before, the first time he saw the plasma-shooting machine, but it hadn't worked. Maybe protego and impedimenta were just too advanced? It sort of made sense that spells that affected the caster's own body would have an easier time working without a wand. Like how metamorphagi and animagi could change without them.

After repeating the spell a few times, with varying results, his wounds finally, sluggishly, closed. Harry took a moment to breathe, then placed his hands over the scars. Picturing the mess of dried blood all down his arm and sleeve and leg, he muttered a low-level cleaning spell.

The blood thinned a bit but remained, staining the orange fibers of his suit. His skin was mostly cleaned.

He closed his eyes, dropped his head back against the wall and breathed out.

It was better than nothing. With any luck, the small success of his healing spell would help the ministry locate him, even if only to threaten him again. He'd been at this for a few hours now, at least! Every room was more dangerous than the last. The energy balls were only a problem if he was stupid enough to portal one straight at himself, but the rooms with acid floors? Twice he'd come close to falling in - once from mistiming a jump and the second from tripping over his own feet, trying to stop.

The metal strips that added a bounce to his step also gave him a longer stride, especially when he picked up speed. If he tried, he could jump a little higher than normal, but their real use – preventing him from shattering his legs via a long fall – had become apparent when a calculated fall into a portal was spoiled by a nervous clenching of his fingers. His gun had opened a new portal to the side, leaving Harry just enough time to panic at hitting the ground before his feet hit the cold tile with a sharp slap, his weight bent the metal strips under him and his knees folded.

He'd landed on his bum, soles of his feet stinging like the dickens, but unbroken.

He'd appreciated the strips a little more after that.

He'd also grown more confident, his walk becoming a stride, then a jog and sometimes even a sprint. It was paradoxically freeing, to be able to run and leap so easily that he sometimes just ignored the test in favor of trying new things. At least until the voice made not-so-veiled threats, anyway.

But, stopping was a _lot_ harder than starting. Both his shoulders, arms and hips had bruises from hitting walls at a sprint. Some of them were from portal 'velocity' tests, where it was all he could do to orient himself mid-air and land on his feet at all, let alone stop his momentum from carrying him into a panel or cube or door.

In the case of the acid room, he had thought that he was meant to leap over the gap and onto the platform in the middle, only realising at the last second that part of the roof could hold a portal, which would be a safer way across the suddenly-larger-gap-than-he'd-thought and he _really needed to stop now._

Only the balls of his feet had any grip, so he'd tried to slam them down, toes spread like a gecko, only to have the strips of metal continue sliding forward, pulling painfully inside his legs and pinching the flesh of his feet sharply.

If he'd fallen forwards and not backwards, he'd be dead now.

He drew a deep breath and opened his eyes.

And froze.

There was a camera staring right at him. It – or whoever was watching on the other end – had just seen him heal himself with a word.

_Shit_.

They, or the woman who spoke to him, wasn't saying anything about it, though. Either they had already known he was magic, or they were just noting it all down for later tests.

Either way, he didn't have much of a choice.

He picked up the portal gun, wiped most of his blood off of it and continued testing.

_Portal WIP_

Several chambers later, still alive, he squinted at the giant information board.

**021/050**

"This is _bullshit!_" He shouted, incensed and exhausted and afraid. "It said twenty, before! I'm supposed to be finished by now!"

He'd been testing for hours – or at least he thought he had. With no clocks, permanent bright lights, the occasional pause to think his way through a room and constant adrenaline dumps and crashes, it could have been four hours or four days.

Nobody had found him. No Fawkes had rescued him or brought him help. No Dobby had anxiously passed him a message.

He was alone, and tired, and hurt, and frightened.

And he'd spent the last few testing chambers promising himself that it was _almost over_. The voice had promised cake at some point, but if it ever appeared, he'd bet his Gringotts vault that it was poisoned. The voice _wanted_ him to die, of that he was certain. But she didn't want to just kill him – she wanted to push and push until he slipped and killed _himself_.

But still, he'd held out hope. Why number the tests so precisely if there wasn't an end? Even a rest would be good – he'd climb into another sleeping pod himself, if he got half a chance. He'd probably hug the first person he saw next, even if they were an evil government official or scientist or janitor.

His vision wasn't _terrible_ without his glasses, just soft-focused enough that it made reading close up a little difficult.

But he wasn't mistaken about _this_.

**021/050**

The voice... the _bitch_. She'd done this. She'd lied to him.

"_Why_?" He howled, slamming the side of his fist into the screen. He whirled about to glare at the nearest camera.

"Fucking tell me _why_, or I will sit right the fuck here and _screw_ what happens because of it! You hear me, you bitch? You want more tests, _tell me why!_"

There was a stutter of noise, a mixture of static and metallic screeching. It sounded offended and condescending all at once.

"_Your regenerative abilities have added a new dimension to the testing structure."_

The voice replied, actively answering him for the first time.

"_Furthermore, it seems to be more potent the more severely you are injured. This requires thorough testing. Don't worry." _It offered, saccharine sweet. _"At the end of this next series of tests, your services will no longer be required."_

"Because I'll be dead?" Harry asked bitterly, turning away and leaning against the wall.

"_That is up to you." _The voice replied. It was followed by a very final sort of beep, as though signaling the end of the conversation.

Harry just stayed huddled against the wall for a time, breathing harshly in the silent chamber, fighting back tears and trying to shore himself up.

He could do what he'd threatened and just stay here. He could rest a bit. The floor was cold, but his legs ached so bad and he was so thirsty he'd found himself looking for water in every room. The voice might send a turret to kill him, but he'd faced them before. She might pipe in acid, though. That would be a horrible way to die. Being shot hurt, but surely acid would be worse. A bullet might hit his brain or he might bleed to death reasonably quickly. Slowly dissolving in acid? ...No thanks.  
>Of course, as shaky as he was right now, he might just fall into a pit all on his own.<p>

But that was it, wasn't it? If he left, he would probably die. But if he stayed, he would _definitely_ die.

He had no choice. Again.

He drew a deep breath and stood straight, lifting the dual portal device in readiness.

"It's only twenty nine more." He whispered to himself. "I can do this."

He continued testing.

_**Portal WIP**_

**Please let me know what you think. I know it's pretty rough.  
>The 'meat' of the story starts after this point and continues on through Chell's story, although very little will be seen of Chell herself. <strong>


	9. HP Alice in Wonderland

_So. AU from Book 4. No Hallows. Something like open war happened instead._

_Alice in Wonderland 2010 'verse. Ish. Mostly because it's been a very long time since I read the books and I like different interpretations of Wonderland and the events within it._

_It's pretty rough. I don't know how it ends.**  
><strong>_

_**Changeling**_

They were nervous, all of them.

All of them, save Harry.

The Savior of the Wizarding World and twice-over Boy-Who-Lived, felt very little at all.

He didn't know what had happened to his angry self of just two years ago. All that energy, the passion, it had just drained away. Stolen in such small amounts that he never even noticed his drive becoming determination, determination becoming resolve, resolve becoming resignation and then – little more than habit.

It was towards the end, right before Harry abandoned his self to magic and reaped the power that came from such sacrifice, when he had struck a deal with the frightened Ministry.

_If I survive this war, I want one thing in return._

_I want to walk through the Veil._

Gurrought, an interim Minister, had seemed both alarmed and relieved at the request. He was not a bad man, per say, and was rightly discomfited by a teenaged boy asking – essentially – to be permitted to die.

But, Harry had always made people nervous, without even trying.

It had started with his family, who were the most extreme in their reaction, but over the years he'd begun to notice that he just _didn't__ quite fit. _Not even in the Wizarding world. They were different from Muggles, strange and wonderful at times... but somehow... just not quite strange and wonderful _enough_.

The rampart gossip and fluctuating opinions about him weren't just an ugly flaw of wizard-kind, it slowly dawned. No-one else faced the crests and dips of their regard like he did. Not when a smear campaign was run against Dumbledore, not when Lockhart was proven a fraud (there was even a book written about it) or when Fudge was thrown out for denying Voldemort's return.

People only seemed to get twisted up by _Harry_.

Even after six years, most of his schoolmates scuttled around him, not making eye contact. And it wasn't just when he'd been accused of murdering students or being a pathological liar.. it was _all the time_. He just hadn't thought about it because they had done the same in his first year, when a boy-hero had been new and exciting. It was only with hindsight that he noticed the difference, how excitement had turned to wariness.

The Weasleys, Harry had come to realise, were the exceptions to the rule – and even _then_, it wasn't all of them.

Fred and George seemed the most comfortable with him, despite not actually being his closest of friends. His best friend was certainly not _un_comfortable, but he was just a bit... solid. Maybe even boring. Always the same concerns, always the same predictable reactions. He was a good person and a good friend, but sometimes Harry just felt exhausted in his presence.

Bill and Charlie he hadn't known well, but after Sirius... well, he'd spent more time with the family and the two eldest brothers.. it had just been awkward. They'd been genuinely welcoming, but they just didn't seem to 'get' Harry. It was quietly obvious after a couple of weeks that they thought he was a little weird, although they probably charitably assumed it was grief-related.

Hermione was brilliant and clever, but often she seemed even more ill-at-ease with the Wizarding world than Harry did. And not just because of the prejudices and the Malfoy-like people. She got frustrated at the lack of technology, aggravated at their apparent backwards nature or way of thinking, annoyed by their non-conformist views of progress and enlightenment. Hermione Granger had been raised muggle she _stayed _Muggle where it counted - in her head.

She had confessed to Harry once, that the hat had refused her a placement in Ravenclaw. It had warned her that Ravens sought knowledge for knowledge's sake – and that she would not find an ounce of the passion she craved with them.

Hermione wished to _explore_ the world – natural and supernatural both. Ravens merely wished to read about it afterward.

Part of Harry acknowledged that the reason he'd found her company so agreeable was that she was simply a different _kind_ of 'not quite right' than other Wizards. Neither he nor her really suited each other, but they'd found companionship in their shared sense of exclusion.

The Trio's deadly adventures that took place during their 6th and 7th years had cemented her path. The second the war was over, Hermione kissed him on the cheek, packed her bags and left. She had caught a glimpse of a world unknown and now – reasonably powerful and _extremely _competent at a lot of different magical & muggle disciplines – she had gone to discover it.

Ron had been somewhat moody over her abrupt departure, having grown to consider a future with her as his wife. Unfortunately for him, he'd never bothered to discuss it with his girlfriend and promptly had his plans dashed when Hermione – not unkindly – shared that she didn't expect to return to Britain for decades, if then.

By that point, of course, Harry was little more than a dead-eyed automaton, magic sometimes shining through his skin but otherwise almost incapable of reacting emotionally to anything.

He'd had no support to offer Ron, no sympathy or empathy or friendly bitching. Ron hadn't resented him for it, he knew Harry too well, but neither had he hung around. He'd gone home to his family to find his feet and plan a new future.

Neither of them knew what Harry had planned. Distantly, he wondered if he was doing them a disservice by not warning them.

But he was just _so_ _tired_. He'd lived a life ill-suited to him. The Dursleys had worn him down with mediocrity more than abuse. The Wizarding World had glimmered with potential that ultimately fell through. He seemed to _lack_ something, something that would enable other wizards to build connections with him, that would enable him to _belong_.

He wasn't worried that the next round of anti-Harry mutterings would lead to calls for his arrest or anything so dramatic as that. But just the thought of those anti-Harry mutterings being so inevitable as to be expected... it hollowed him out in the worst way.

He just wanted to get _out_.

_This_ world only offered more of the same mismatching people to him.

He could hope, vaguely, that the next one would be better.

He stepped through.

_Though he didn't see it, every wizard and witch in the room bowed or took off their hats in respect._

_**Changeling**_

He was falling, plunging, his guts in his throat and wind burning the back of his neck.

For a moment he was bewildered, floundering.

He felt.

Then he hit the ground, and felt nothing.

_Changeling_

He woke to the scent of wildflowers. Sweet and subtle, creamy and sharp. A dozen different scents he knew but couldn't identify.

He opened his eyes. A mess of light and dark green was broken up by deep blue and purple blotches. He blinked. His vision cleared. The green became stems and leaves, the blotches became flowers. Some wide and flat, some curling and curving gracefully upwards.  
>He turned his face to the sky and frowned at it.<p>

An oval of powder-blue sky glowed welcomingly above him, ringed by thin white clouds that frothed into an ugly bruised expanse. Thunder echoed in the distance.

Ignoring the improbability, he sat up. From his improved height, he could see two things. One, there was a rainbow of flowers surrounding him, pouting petals, bowed bells, spiky bursts, spiderweb-like curls and a dozen other weird shapes. Two, the flowers only covered an oval area around him of about 15 meters in diameter. After that, they gave way to a scorched and dry land, topsoil gone and deep cracks breaking up the surface.

He turned back to the flowers. Before his confused eyes, one soft tuft of pink silk sprouted from a new plant and swiftly wove itself into an intricate Celtic knot, pollen hidden in the center.

It was.. beautiful. Wonderful.

If this was death, so far it was looking good.

Slowly, carefully, he moved to the nearest edge and looked out over the broken land. There were no buildings on any horizon. No sign of shelter or food or _life_.

Except within his small patch of flowers.

"The next great adventure." He murmured.

He left the flowers with only a small backwards glance and struck out into the desert. He felt no fear. He didn't know if he wasn't capable of it, or if - after dying – there just wasn't much left _to_ fear.

His stride was steady and resolute. He didn't look back again. And so, he didn't see the ground swell with life behind him, grass and flowers leaping up where his feet had fallen.

_Changeling_

Minutes or hours or days later, he was thirsty. Before he could even finish looking around for water, the ground split open at his feet, earth arching up to form a clumsy bowl. Within the bowl was clear water that sparkled dimly in the weak light.

Harry paused, then drank. He was already dead, after all. What was the worst that could happen?

When he'd drunk his fill (the bowl never emptying) he looked around.

Behind him stretched a line of green, trailing off into the far distance. It was speckled with colour as dainty flowers grew up through the lush grass.

"Huh." He said quietly, looking down at his feet. Around them, the grass pushed up through the cracked and broken soil, which in turn crumbled and moistened into rich earth.

He liked it.

As though emboldened by his approval, the grass spread out around him in an ever-growing circle. Thinking it was a damn sight better than the miserable expanse of dead nothingness, he tried thinking about it growing even further. His mind threw up a memory of Scotland through the window of the train to Hogwarts. All rolling hills of gently-waving green.

With a surge of something like giddy enthusiasm, every inch of ground in sight figuratively _exploded_ with green. The land itself heaved and sunk before his eyes, creating valleys and hills. As Harry turned slowly on the spot, he saw that it stretched as far as he could see and consumed the thin path that had traced his steps.

As the world around him grew brighter, he looked up. The sky was clearing too. What had been a narrow blue trail -mirroring the trail of green behind him - was expanding alongside the grassy land. A robin-egg blue sky without a single cloud. A white ball of light, like a sun except not quite, was revealed.

As Harry looked back at the world around him, he frowned. The light.. it.. wasn't right. It was too white. It made the world look clinical, unreal.

Sterile.

It needed to be... yellower?

Like an eager puppy, the sun changed colour. Like flipping a switch, the world went from lushly cool to lushly warm. Slowly, more flowers spread through the meadows and hills, shyly peeping up above the calf-high grass.

He sat, leaning back on his hands. Softly, the bowl beside him sunk down until it was just a round puddle of water. Something was missing... something...

"A breeze." He murmured, as a gentle wind ruffled his hair and swept the grass before him. The breeze was a bit too warm to start with, but it cooled rapidly and then warmed again until it was just right. It learned to change itself up, too, rather than being just one steady gust.

Harry wondered if this was what heaven was. A place which molded itself to your every whim, which wanted you to be happy.

Time passed.

Rocks appeared, similar to the Scottish highlands. Boulders large and small were lightly scattered and here and there were veins of stone peeking through the grass. Some of the stones were grey and some were sort of whitish, but all had smooth, rounded edges.

Harry had lived a life of suffering and danger and injury. If this was his heaven, he wanted it to always be safe.

There was a soft sigh, soothing and loving, like the world was settling down to sleep. The shadows lengthened until Harry noticed that evening had crept up whilst he'd been relaxing. He'd never been afraid of the dark, but...

Long shadows spoke of a done day, of weariness but also alertness to the things - humans and otherwise - which preyed in the dark.

Harry didn't want to feel like it was a done day. Didn't want to be alert whilst his body craved sleep. Didn't want to be reminded of his last few months of the war, living in constant danger.

If this was his heaven, he wanted it to stay in the prime of daylight.

Almost before his desire was formulated, the sun sprung back into a central position. Noon returned the world to its state of cheerful energy. Harry smiled and lay back.

The sun was in his eyes, so a tree rumbled out of the earth behind him and grew tall and thick to shade him. Too thick. So, it thinned itself out. But the leaves were too dark, too spindly, so it plumped its leaves, softened its colour and grew a little closer to the ground. Now the shade it cast was patchy, its trunk was smooth and friendly. Harry felt like a few more to keep it company, and then closed his eyes and napped.

When he woke, who knew how long later, it was still high noon. He walked about a bit, exploring, and quickly decided that the lack of shadows was disconcerting. Obediently, the sun shuffled to the side until it was closer to one o'clock.

Perfect.

By the time he wandered back to his resting place, feeling thirsty once more, the trees had tentatively spread. They didn't bunch together, not wanting to create a forest for things to hide, but broke up the monotony of rolling hills and provided a break for the wind. Harry gave them a nod, smiling slightly when - to a tree - they brightened and seemed to grow a little straighter.

He sat back down by the puddle of water and thought about it expanding into a small pool. It was during experimentation with what he thought lilies might look like, that he noticed an intruder.

He frowned a little, looking out over his land at the scruffy-looking rabbit moving cautiously towards him.

He wasn't sure he liked the idea that things could pop up un-summoned. It... wasn't safe.

Maybe this _wasn't_ heaven.

Then again, if nothing new ever happened, he'd probably get bored. Eventually. For now, he just stood up and waited.

As the rabbit got closer, he realised that it was... really pretty huge. Its body stretched out was probably almost as long as his leg, and its ears were almost comically long for its head.

Almost, that is, because one ear was half-missing and the other was torn and scarred.

A lot of the animal was scarred, he noticed. A line straight across its snout was the ugliest, but here and there its brownish fur was grey or stunted, suggesting hidden damage.

Then it reached him, stopping a couple of meters away. It lifted itself up onto its hind legs, looked directly at him... and spoke.

_**Changeling**_

_This is probably only going to appeal to a very small amount of people. :) There's no real plot to it, only a vague 'happily ever after' for a war-torn Harry who never quite fit in. Probably only 3-4 chapters in total, eventually. _


	10. HP Stargate SG1

So this ficlet is an orphan. Since I really need to be preparing for tomorrow's exam, I am instead browsing through one of my older files and I just can't remember where I was going with this.

**Into the Deep Blue**

"Do you smell... cotton candy?" O'Neill asked suddenly, sniffing the air suspiciously. Walter obediently started sniffing like he needed a hanky whilst Major Carter just politely eyeballed her CO.

There was a rush of air followed by a soft thump as one of the technicians in the room abruptly collapsed. Everyone tried to turn at the noise but found themselves inexplicably collapsing also. Walter slumped down over the control panel, the machine making a loud and painful beeping noise in his ear as his cheek depressed a few keys.

O'Neil managed to stagger a step towards the all-alarm button on the wall before he too collapsed, falling awkwardly on his arm and grunting from both the impact and pain.

Just at the edge of his vision, O'Neill could make out one of the room's BM guard, his eyes moving jerkily, but not panicked. So, whatever drug they'd been exposed to, it wasn't intended to knock them out, just put them down. Or maybe kill them slowly, but he was kinda hoping for option one.

In the low noise that came from a dozen machines humming and a dozen people breathing placidly, he could make out a set of footsteps. Light, most likely belonging to a woman. They moved quickly, but cautiously, a sort of stop-start motion that implied whoever it was was checking around doorways and corners carefully. 

A scuff accompanied a pair of worn sneakers walking past his face. O'Neil tried to make his body attack and was disgruntled when it just continued to lie there inhaling dust.

Didn't anyone vacuum this place? Seriously. He didn't want to think about what kind of off-world dust he was snorting.

He tried to follow the person, eyes straining as he forced them to the edge of their range. His vision was a little out of focus and the pain meant he had to keep glancing away before looking back, but he could see enough to make out the surprising fact that their intruder was no woman.

It was a kid.

A very scruffy, skinny kid.

If they'd been hacked into and taken over by one goddamn internet-loving 'Y generation' punk, he was gonna resign. Again. But this time, for good.

Slender hands plucked tentatively, at Walter's clothing. After a momentary hesitation the kid seemed to find a good angle and slipped one hand under the senior technician's arm and the other over his shoulder before yanking backwards to pull him off the console and onto the floor. 

To his credit, the kid was obviously trying his best to be gentle and was careful to lower the tech's head to the concrete floor slowly – but frankly, Jack was just sure the man was grateful to be hauled off the damned computer's damned speaker.

The teenager dithered a bit over the controls, further cementing the belief in Jack's mind that this was some kind of juvenile 'did it cause I could' security breach and not the more common 'did it so I could kill people/enslave people/escape from people' variety they usually saw.

He seemed to find what he was looking for in the PA mike and experimented briefly with it to figure out how it worked.

Ok, maybe his Y-generation-punk theory was looking a little pale now.

"Uh.. hello." The kid said awkwardly, British accent clear to hear. "Please don't be frightened. I'm not here to hurt anyone.. and, uh, the paralysis you're experiencing is very temporary. It'll wear off soon, I promise. Try not to panic or anything, though. I, uh, guess you could consider this an opportunity to take a bit of a break."

The kid sounded young and self-conscious as his voice rung out through the complex. He hesitated for a long moment before switching the mike off, then started stepping over to people and briefly scrutinising them for something.

O'Neill could only make out one of Carter's legs from here, but as the kid bent over her he silently willed her to lash out like she had at _him_ so many damn times. _C'mon, Carter. _He encouraged silently. _Kick that kid's ass._

Carter didn't feel like it, he guessed, because the kid was able to leave unscathed.

Then suddenly there were hands on his jacket, tugging it, one hand burrowing underneath it and his shirt to grip his dog tags and pull them out.

"Finally." The kid whispered, apparently relieved about something. Jack was busy griping internally about why mysterious trespassers couldn't ever be breaking in to abduct someone _other_ than him. Like, well, Walter, for example. That guy could use the change in pace.

Pale hands attached to thin, delicate wrists bunched themselves in his jacket and _lifted_. Jack's head fell back limply, treated to the sight of the kid's stick-thin body straining to lug his dead weight around. 

Jack was dragged the final distance to the wall, his back propped against it. The kid ducked down in front of him, kneeling over one of his legs.

He had very green eyes, Jack couldn't help but notice, even as he committed everything to memory. I mean, there was 'He had green eyes, sir' and then there was 'He had green eyes, sir, like freaking kryptonite or something. I'm talking _green_.'

He _also_ had a thin face with very fine stress lines around his eyes and lips. Jet black hair struck out in all directions and a very fine, pale pink scar struck down above his left eye in the shape of a lightning bolt.

_Why thank you, mysterious interloper, for having such a handily distinguishable mark_. He thought, half amused by the whole thing. On the SGC scale of bad-news, this kid barely rated a 0.5 – just below the canteen running out of brownies. He was just.. too obviously a non-professional. He was obviously aiming to get his little mission done without hurting anyone. He was.. was..

Ah, hell, he was just too damned _cute_ to be any bigger a threat.

"I'm about to do a very, very bad thing." The kid told him directly.

Or not.

"I just want you to know" the kid continued, hurried but almost painfully earnest "that I'm really very sorry. It's just.. I don't have many other options." Pinched lips twisted slightly in a bitter smile. "Well, not any that don't end in me dead or worse, anyway."

Cold hands touched his cheeks, then lifted his head as they slid back and into his hair. The kid leaned in close, his right knee uncomfortably near to Jack's crotch. Jack felt a flicker of alarm as the kid got right up close to his face. Was he going to..?!

Unreal green eyes met his and the rest of the world fell away. He was cognizant only of the fingers gripping his skull, the eyes boring into him, his own heart thudding rapidly in his chest.

Then the world exploded, every memory he has screaming around the two of them like a hurricane, the fingers pressing into his skull were biting now, burning.

Then it was over and the sudden cessation was like an all-brain slap.

His eyes were watering, but he could still see that the kid seemed to feel the same, reeling back from him and falling on his ass, bright red dripping from his nose as he groaned in pain.

_Good_. He thought viciously. _Serves you right_ _That's what happens when you go digging into people's heads_.

As though hearing the thought – hell, maybe he did – The kid shook his head and choked out another apology, this one accompanied by a spatter of blood on the floor. Then he was getting clumsily to his feet, weaving strongly. He leant against the wall for a moment before pushing off and staggering to the main control board which he almost fell on.

He looked in worse shape than Jack himself, the Colonel couldn't help but notice – a little indignantly. People who went barging through other people's memories shouldn't have the audacity to be more adversely affected by the experience than their victims!

The kid made another choked noise – partly of pain, but mostly of airways being obstructed by blood. The blood bit was proven when another spray of red – a little bigger this time – misted on to the control panel, which the teen started shakily operating with the expertise of.. well..

A USAF Colonel who made it a point to know his critical systems, even if he'd deny it on his deathbed.  
><em>Freakin' mind-readers.<em>

The Stargate whirled to life and automated klaxons – the minor, quieter kind – started up in the gate-room and hallways outside it. They sounded louder when there were no running feet, barked orders or gunfire.

The kid weaved his way towards the exit, somehow managing to trip over the Colonel's outstretched legs, falling to the ground hard enough to make even him cringe on the inside. That had gotta sting.

His pinky twitched, the paralysis just as temporary as the kid had promised. For a moment he thought the kid had managed to knock himself out and this would all be over soon, threat level remaining well below 'no brownies'. But, of course, he wasn't that lucky. The kid levered himself up on shaking arms, blood looking to be coming from his _ears _too, and okay that was actually worrying him a bit. He could admit that kids were kind of his weakness, even mind-reading ones with the annoying inclination to neutralize his entire base.

Panting for air, the kid clawed his way upright, wavered in the doorway and then disappeared into the hall. He listened to his footsteps moving further away and kept working on that pinky-twitching, aiming for the rest of his body within the next, oh, twenty seconds would be good. 

Teal'c shook his head as he made his way from the armory to the gate room. He'd heard the announcement and therefore had some idea as to the state of the rest of the base, but the drug had taken even his symbiote an unreasonably long time to counter. It may have been a continual feed, but even now that he had mobility back, it was clumsy and uncoordinated. He was heading into a possibly lethal situation, without backup, without even his own strength at prime efficiency.

Hence, the armory. He had a zit'na'kel holstered in both side pockets and a staff weapon he was using more to aid his balance than as a likely weapon. Of course, if it came to a firefight he'd be steadier with the two-handed weapon than one smaller zit'na'kel.

He heard the active-gate klaxons alarm and picked up the pace, finding the door to the gate room open and a hunched figure leaning on the ramp railing as he made his escape.

A single glance was all it took to see every other man in the room down. The enemy was only meters away from escape.

His limbs shook. He made a choice.

He lifted the staff. 

Harry saw it before he felt it. A bolt of light as thick as his arm rocketing out of his stomach. Out of a _hole_ in his stomach. A hole that was smoking.

He fell to one knee, dimly registering that something had just punched him from behind, something that made a searing, zipping sound.

His last hope glowed ethereally before him, taunting him with its nearness. He hit the grating at the same time as the pain hit _him_, wrenching a strangled cry from whatever his lungs had left. Merlin, he could feel his insides _sizzling_, the stench of burnt meat filling his nostrils. Unbidden, a dozen other memories – of pain, of loss, of fear – crowded into his mind. Not one of them was his.

He gasped for air, the sound long and harsh. How long had he not been breathing? Footsteps made the ground underneath him vibrate and his right hand flexed weakly, trying to trigger the release for his secret – and only – weapon.

A strong, large hand wrapped over his shoulder and _pulled_, just as another found the hole in his side and _pushed_.

He screamed. It might not be a crucio, but right then he couldn't differentiate the two in his mind. It _hurt__._

Someone was saying something, someone who was gripping his shoulder tight and pressing against his wound so hard he wanted to die rather than feel it a second longer. Someone who had already shaken the drug he'd fed into the air. Or maybe they all had by now.

Whimpering softly, blinking away tears of shock and pain, he lashed out. The hand on his shoulder shifted with lightning reflexes to catch his own, but it didn't matter. Skin contact was all he needed.

The vial in his hand broke on impact, the potion within bubbling furiously as it expanded on contact with air. The person holding him down shuddered and collapsed to the side.

Harry dug his teeth viciously into his lower lip and forced himself to keep moving – to crawl – into the beckoning blue before him.

Even if he died on the other side.. it was better than staying here. Even than dying here.

If he could just make it 'off world'... then his _own_ world wouldn't burn. 

{}

**End**

Yeah. So what little I remember was this: 

Somehow, for some reason, Harry and Clone!Jack were prisoners together. Of who? No idea. But something was done to Harry in an attempt to do something else - probably connected with Ancient stuff, considering Clone!Jak's presence - and which had the side effect of burning the magic out of him.

There was something about what was done to him making him something like the little bomb inside a nuclear bomb - he was the start of a chain reaction waiting to happen, one that would decimate the world.

He got from Clone!Jack (either through accidental mind reading or advice.. probably the latter) that he could go to the SGC for help/evacuation off-world but not wanting to risk being held for questioning (and whatever happening that caused him to go nova) he went with the 'feed potions into the air supply' route instead, once he and Clone!Jack escaped.

I don't know where the clone is during all this. I kinda feel that he wasn't in favour of the 'drug everyone and go for broke' strategy.

Anyway, Harry could do the mind-reading thing a bit (discovered by accident) but he's untrained and very new and frankly just not good enough to only take what he meant to take - operative instructions for the Stargate. So, when he tried it from the guy whose mind he was familiar with (best chance of not driving them both insane) and went for it, he got a complete memory dump instead.

Unfortunately for Harry, the colonel's mind still holds the Ancient .zip file (in this story, the Asgard simply re-compressed it, since Jack _had_ amazingly been capable of using it even as it overloaded his brain), which Harry's mind was NOT prepared for, hence the bleeding and staggering.

I can't remember why they didn't just run after him and pick his dying body up - but there _was_ a reason!  
>And Clone!Jack had had something done to him too? I think because he was made with the same .zip file in his head, as he was rapidly aged it had settled better and their captors had cracked it causing another, slower, unspooling? Something. I dunno.<p>

I hoped you enjoyed this little snippet anyway. If someone has been hugely inspired and wants to write more, go ahead! Just drop me a line so I can read it, yeah?


	11. HP Bioshock (The Enemy Within)

Moved from my junk drawer to this collection. Chronologically accurate, so set _way_ after Bioshock 1 + 2. Low-priority.

_**The Enemy Within**_

The morning air was damp and fresh and Hermione breathed it in deeply as she opened a set of french windows. Pale yellow sun streaked through early fog which would probably be cleared up by the time her crumpets finished toasting. Smiling softly, glad she'd decided to eat breakfast outside, she twitched a finger to summon the necessary materials to the iron-and-oak table before her, then flicked her fingers at the matching seat to dry it. Sitting with a sigh, she picked up one of four newspapers (delivered to her doorstep these days, she had very little patience for strange owls bothering her during meals) and shook it out to skim the headlines.

Oh.

_**Boy Who Lived Eloping With Employer?**_

She shook her head, only mildly feeling the combination of outrage and pity that such scandalous articles once fired up within her. By now, of course, she was just too used to them. Beneath the headline was a candid photo of Luna Lovegood - registered Explorer and Magic Analyst - peering at an upside down map with unfocused interest whilst in the background her sponsor - _and_ employee - juggled almost twenty bags and boxes of various sizes and shapes with an exasperated expression. Even with magic, it was a tricky task since some of them seemed to be trying to actively run away.

Technically, Harry was Luna's 'Assistant'. It was an actual job title in the Wizarding World, particularly for Explorers - which was also an actual job. Explorers were considered a rung below - or above, depending on who you talked to - curse breakers. They tended to have no formal training or qualifications beyond a passion to dive into the unexplored depths of the world and a habit of coming out alive again. The Ministries of various countries employed one or two as they fell in and out of fashion (or as rumours of various lost magical sites rose and fell) but most were either offspring of, or funded by, wealthy sponsors.

Luna had approached Harry at their final year in Hogwarts, offering him a job with her if he'd fund her searches for gulping plimbies, rambling oilafs and various other creatures that didn't exist.

Harry, weary to the bone and with no clear plan for after school, had agreed. When Hermione had railed at him for throwing his money away - especially on an unreliable girl like Luna and _especially_ when he'd actually be working _for_ her - he'd just waited her out before saying just five words that rocked her on her metaphorical heels.

"It's _my_ life. Isn't it?"

Firm, yet honestly questioning. A boy who'd been pushed and pulled, bullied and manipulated for his whole life, both knowingly and unknowingly, had essentially asked her if _she_ planned to try taking his choices away too. Chastised, she'd backed down.

But it had been the beginning of the end, for them. For their friendship. She'd felt it, in that moment. A sad, inevitable feeling. It was like the moment of emptiness, of regret, of 'now what?' after sex. Their adolescent lives had built up to Voldemort and the war and once that climax was over and their final year of schooling was racing to end before they were ready… well.

They were _all_ tired. They _all_ needed a break. Maybe even from each other.

But that didn't mean she wanted it to happen. That didn't mean it didn't hurt, to have seven years of closeness beyond description just… fade away.

That wasn't to say that they were strangers now, exactly. Harry still wrote to her, on a semi-regular basis. But he was… just… obviously content, with the way his life was now. With being the all-important assistant to a scatterbrained witch who was often living life half in her own head. Harry was the one who organised everything, who made things happened, who kept Luna and himself safe whilst Luna herself just came up with one crazy plan after another. So far they hadn't discovered anything - big surprise - but they'd been all over the world in all sorts of pickles and sometimes… _only_ sometimes, mind… she could admit she was a little jealous. If only of how the two of them had managed to spit in Voldemort's face one more time by living their lives energetically to the full instead of being bogged down in post-war depression like most everyone else.

Harry and Luna were, last she'd heard, kicking back on a tropical island somewhere 'searching for Atlantis' in a manner which apparently required a great deal of banana daiquiris and limbo dancing.

And here _she_ was, being content with just having a nice cup of tea and a crumpet in the early morning air, like an old granny.

In the background, said crumpets popped out of the toaster and she summoned them with a flicker of magic. Once they hit her plate, her cutlery - well used to this procedure - began slathering on butter and jam just the way she liked it.

Not that she hadn't done well, she hastened to assure herself - as she often did. Although her home was technically a cottage, it was one that sprawled over a decent amount of land with an excellent view of Skye Island's untouched Wizarding expanse. She had several workshops for her varying interests and although she didn't technically _hold_ a job, she made quite a good living through her many little 'projects' and commissions. Although she held the skills to do many jobs - warding, runework, enchantment - a problem she had was that she simply found them all too _boring_. She was very happy to make something as an experiment or exercise in intellectual exertion but once she'd _made_ a mirror which reflected the viewer's 'could have beens', well… she just wasn't interested in doing it _again_. So her market was always the wealthier crowd who didn't mind buying one-of-a-kind pieces from an upstart Muggleborn, the kind of people who would only ever purchase her expensive work as a conversation piece or simply to have it forgotten in a room somewhere. The kind of people who didn't appreciate or understand the skill that went into it, and didn't have any intention of ever doing so either.

Once, she'd turned her nose up at those people. Now they paid the bills whilst she tried to find something a little more reliable - but still interesting - to do.

The worst of it all, if she was totally honest with herself… was the loneliness. She'd never really had friends outside of Ron and Harry and it was coming back to bite her now. After Ron had… well. After he'd broken their friendship in his typical pigheaded manner, she'd clung to Harry… only to find Harry not a port to anchor herself to but just another boat, looking for his own place to shelter.

And now Harry was somewhere in the world having an interesting life. Ron was somewhere in England, hopefully choking on his own self-importance and she was…

Reading four newspapers, two British, one French and one American. Because she had more time than she knew what to do with.

Sighing, she took a bite of her crumpet and continued reading.

_War-hero Harry Potter recently confounded the world when he announced his intention to not only sponsor an Explorer - something not seen in Britain since the 40's - but also to be employed _by_ the very Explorer he was sponsoring. _

"_He's always been cracked." An ex-classmate offered flatly. "And not in the good way. You know he thinks House Elves should be free?"_

She glared a bit at the paper. Seriously? After all her work - maybe a touch too passionate at times - organising S.P.E.W and badges and raising a stink over the whole issue - the end memory was of it being _Harry's_ crusade?

_Is this another example of our legendarily unstable hero? In a time when the Ministry and single women alike are clamouring for his attention, he chooses to play servant to a girl known for her own mental imbalance._

"_I think it's sweet." A member of the public considered. "Maybe he's trying to catch her eye."_

"_Don't be stupid." A close friend of Mr Potter scoffed. "Harry and Looney? He's just got too much money and too much nobility to know what to do with it all - 'course he's gonna go along with her, if he thinks it's the right thing to do. He's thick like that."  
><em>

Hermione's lips pursed. That sounded like Ron. He was a lot freer with the press these days. Not quite milking his friendship with Harry so much as feeling that he was newsworthy enough himself that anyone asking him questions did so because they were interested in _him _and _his opinion _on things.

Or maybe that was her bitterness talking.

_As Mr Potter remains unavailable for comment, we at the Daily Prophet can only speculate. The lack of any apparent success of previous expeditions have lead some to wonder if the arrangement is simply a cover story - be it for a quiet romance or less-than-legal activities. _

_Clive Monolith, a recent auror graduate, is independently investigating the possibility of an international smuggling ring. The Daily Prophet will follow this story as it develops._

This time she rolled her eyes. Considering how unforgiving Minister Brocklehurst was of any abuse of power (that wasn't her own) she rather expected the next development would be the firing of one Clive Monolith.

She rested the paper in her lap and picked up her tea instead. The fog was almost completely gone by now and the morning sun was touching gold to the green and purple hills unrolling before her. Maybe she should stop reading the papers. Stop fooling herself that she was an active, contributing member of society. Stop pretending she was anything but an aimless shut-in with no goals, no family and no life.

…Maybe she should just have another drink.

_The Enemy Within_

"…I don't think this is the place." Harry lifted his hand to cover his nose. The sea breeze was rancid here, choked with rotting seaweed or whatever the slime coating all the rocks was.

"Of course it is." Luna replied absently, studying a massive metal door set flush into the large stone lighthouse the two of them stood outside. It was midday and the sun was beating down with unrelenting force. Only the breeze - stinking though it was - offered any relief. But whereas Luna, in her one-piece yellow swimsuit under a loose orange macrame t-shirt and pants, had plenty of opportunity to enjoy it, as her official pack mule… well, Harry wasn't so lucky.

Over the three years since leaving school, the two of them had found a comfortable rhythm in their Explorer jobs. Luna had the wild ideas, dug up the strange stories to chase and somehow found them one ancient or undiscovered corner of the world after another. Harry? Well, Harry was The Assistant. He was the guy who booked and paid for all their tickets, who took care of customs and snuck them past border guards. He was also their wand and shield, tackling the various protections or dangerous conditions they stumbled over with a combination of brute force and the edge the Elder Wand gave him. Luna was clever and abstract and she could decipher languages she'd never seen before simply by (apparently) listening to their echoes. Her odd 'sight' which had all of them wondering if she was a seer or just intuitive during the war, continued to manifest itself in unexpected and minor ways. She never, ever, stepped on the trap stones or touched the electrified handles or tripped the concealed wires. When something she couldn't avoid came up, she just stopped and waited for Harry to handle it.

There had been some teething problems, in the beginning, but by now? They worked well together.

Although sometimes it really did _suck_ to have her pull 'Me Explorer, You Assistant' so that he had to carry all their stuff himself. Especially when life-or-death situations meant you couldn't afford to rummage in a pouch for a shrunken item. Because of that, over a quality tank top Harry wore what was essentially a vest of straps and belts. Three courier bags (saddle bags, Luna insisted, for 'the loot') were clipped to his waist, one on either hip and one over his backside. A simple system of loops and Velcro strips allowed him to sheath a crowbar against his back, laid cross-wise over a short, magically reinforced machete (both unbelievably useful in their line of work) and all manner of pockets and clasps along his front let him maintain ready access to various potions/materials, pencils, torches, wrenches, snacks etc. Add to that his black hemp pants and sturdy boots? Yeah, he was sweating.

"Hmm. Harry?" Luna stepped back from the door, apparently unable to open it. Harry glanced up at it, then up some more. He couldn't help but feel a strange sense of foreboding. Then again, it wouldn't be the first time.

"You're _sure_?" He asked again. Luna slanted him an exasperated look but placed her wand on her palm regardless.  
>"Point me: What I'm looking for." She commanded. Her wand spun once and then tugged down towards the ground. Snatching it up and stowing it away, she looked to Harry with an arched brow.<p>

"Fine." Harry sighed, waving his hand at the door from which came the sound of massive metal bolts sliding back before it cracked open. With the Elder Wand braced to his dominant arm, little and familiar spells came easily.

Luna squealed and dragged the door open wider before slipping in, dashing into the gloom beyond. Harry chased her, stepping a little slower as lights cracked on automatically only for half to crackle, throw sparks and die.

_This place__… it's Muggle?_

"Come _on_, Harry!" Luna's voice floated up from below, distorted slightly by the metal walls. Harry slunk down to join her, back to the wall and watchful. Muggle places had their own style of security and unlike magical ones, they tended not to reveal themselves to the magically sensitive.

Still, nothing jumped out at them. An old song was playing over the speaker system but it kept skipping and repeating like an old record. Creepy, but not necessarily dangerous. At the deepest part of the room there was a large pool of water that glittered malevolently black.

Luna directed a focused beam of light from her wand into the depths, revealing a mossy green but smooth tunnel running dead straight down. Harry rolled his shoulders and tried not to sigh. You wouldn't think he'd be claustrophobic after his childhood in the cupboard, but it seemed to grow on him with every narrow crawlspace or dark tunnel.

"Clear it." Luna muttered, staring intently at the even distribution of lumps. A twitch of Harry's finger and even he was blinking in impressed surprise at the polished steel statues and tinted stones revealed beneath.

"This is no hidden military base." He observed. "They don't tend to bother with decor."

Luna looked up at him, eyes wide with childlike excitement.

"It's much better!" She breathed. "I think… Harry, I think I've finally found it!"

She sat on the edge, slipping her legs into the freezing Atlantic water without a single shiver. A swish of her wand and globes of light sunk down to illuminate at least a mile. Almost laughing with delight, she bit her lip and beckoned him down with her.

"Harry… We've found Rapture!"

_The Enemy Within_

"Woah, there, Luna." Harry quickly wrapped a hand around her upper arm to stop her just diving in to try _swimming_ down. "I'm not an expert or anything, but even I know that humans can't go very deep under water unprotected."

Luna tilted her head at him - her 'I don't think you know as much as you think you know' look - but obligingly pulled her legs out of the water.

"Okay, Harry." She humoured him. "We can use the drop-ball."

Harry looked around at the empty room. Looked back. Refused to ask what a drop-ball was.

Grinning cheekily, Luna pulled a small metal ball from her pocket and flicked her wand to restore it to proper size. It landed in the water and bobbed cheerily, bouncing from edge to edge.

"Oh." Luna frowned. The metal ball was very obviously too small to fit into the brackets running down the back of the tunnel.

Harry flicked his wand into his hand.

"Assistant!" Luna commanded. "Enlarge the drop-ball!"

Harry enlarged it, twisting his wand slightly in order to gently lift and re-place the sphere's backside onto the tracks built for it. Helpfully, his magic snapped open and closed the locks as needed.

As he finished, his magic dropping away, something connected with a loud _clunk_ and the lights inside the sphere flickered on. Luna squealed and dashed inside, throwing herself on to one of the seats. Ducking carefully through the opening after her (and wondering if enlarging a metal ball designed to withstand massive pressure was the smartest of ideas), Harry settled on the opposite seat and kept the incantation for the bubble-head charm firmly in mind. Or would it be better to try apparition?

"Onward!" Luna cheered, grabbing a lever and pulling. With a wrench of metal the door slammed shut, locked, and they descended.

_**The Enemy Within**_


	12. HPSupernatural Education Part 2

This story is on hold in favour of others, so here's a collection of scenes for anyone who is interested, preceded by a slight introductory summary.

**The Education of Dean Winchesters**

**(Part 2)**

Dean is a wizard.

His acceptance letter has been following him around America for years – every year John has destroyed it until when Dean is 17 and it is accompanied by a letter saying that he is considered of age by Wizarding law but his lack of education means he is forbidden from doing magic – and that if he does so he will be persecuted without sympathy.

John has never known how genuine the letters were, always assuming they were a trick to steal his son away. The warning about government punishment and laws however makes him worry. _If it is true_ then his son could be punished for something he never knew. Occasionally the hunt needs them to do rudimentary 'spells' – cleansing rituals and the like, mostly. But his exposure to Bobby has opened his eyes that although Witches sell their souls for magic power, not only witches can do magic.

So he writes back. He writes to Headmaster Dumbledore of Hogwarts, since that was the original letter and if a magical government exists then he'd prefer advice before he contacts them. (Governments mean trouble)

Dumbledore shows up.

John is suspicious but Dumbledore makes a convincing sight – moving, magical robes, long white beard, magical wand and conjuring of all types. He explains their world and that America is still considered a colony by the British ministry and thus all American wizards and witches are invited to study within Britain but there are no American schools or government branches. On the other hand, this gives Dean automatic British citizenship IF he completes his education.

Dumbledore warns that Dean has probably been exhibiting accidental magic in the past and will most likely continue to do so in the future, without training in control. Dumbledore warns him that if Dean continues to do so – he WILL be held accountable by the ministry.

Normally John could pay for a Ministry-approved tutor to train Dean in what he needs to know to pass the OWLS and NEWTS, but that is very expensive to do - especially to bring them to America every day. Also, since John and his family move often, it would be very inconvenient and tricky to meet up well – wizards don't use cell phones and most don't apparate to places they don't know. 

"I do have an alternative. I have a handful of exceptional students who may be interested in an extended tutoring opportunity."

"Like a student exchange?" John queried suspiciously. Dumbledore brightened. "Oh yes, quite. Very apt. As minors they cannot be paid for their efforts, but I think the experience of living in America would be quite payment enough for most of them. Living amongst Muggles would be even more exotic."

At this, John shook his head. "No." He said firmly. "I'm not interested in any of your 'purebloods'. My kids won't put up with their attitude and our lives are dangerous enough without bringing along some brat who can't interact with normal people."

Dumbledore gave him a quiet look. "And do you define yourself as normal?" He asked blandly. John didn't back down an inch. "We can pass as normal." He said flatly. "Can any of your purebloods?"

Dumbledore sighed and sat back.

"No, I expect not. Not Muggle normality in any case." He admitted ruefully. "Very well, then. That leaves two students who would fit the criteria of 'fitting in'. As much as a British teenager could in America, in any case." He added archly. "Miss Granger is a Sixth-year, seventeen years old and one of the most brilliant students we have had the pleasure of teaching. Self-motivated, highly organised and extremely thorough. I do believe she is the best suited."

John sat back, silently considering this.

"And... the other?" He asked slowly, his face giving nothing away.

Dumbledore's own face settled into a sort of blank pleasantness.

"Mister Potter, also a sixth year, but still only sixteen. A very fine young man. He is not as scholastically gifted as Miss Granger, but he is our top student across all years in Defence Against the Dark Arts and last year took it upon himself to further educate his fellow students in the subject. There was an.. unfortunate situation with the DADA teacher that year. Bureaucracy, you know."

John just nodded.

"And what about the rest of his classes? The ones Dean needs to know?"

"Well, in order to pass his OWLs, Dean must achieve at least Ps in Charms, Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions, History of Magic and Herbology. All of which, I must confess, Mr Potter scored EEs –Exceeds Expectations – in or higher. He _is_ quite a gifted young man, although unlike Miss Granger he tends not to apply himself unless he's actively interested in the subject."

John snorted. "Most kids are like that." He said dryly, thinking of his own youth and his two sons. Sammy was the exception, not the rule. And although Sam might actually get along with the Granger girl, it was Dean who needed to learn this stuff urgently. And he didn't think Dean would work well with a micro-managing, motivated female Sammy.

He said as much to Dumbledore, who stroked his long beard thoughtfully.

"That is a valid point." He conceded. "I confess, I am pushing for Miss Granger to go because as her Professor I know that she is the most trustworthy option to focus on schoolwork and can be relied upon to make certain _all_ topics are covered in an even manner. But, it is also true that learning styles and personal compatibility should be taken into account. Miss Granger _can_ be rather focused and tense about her work and would not likely take well to a less than focused and motivated student – especially considering that she would be reducing her own educational opportunity to aid another's."

"Yeah." John agreed. "And also, I'm not sure it'd be very good if the tutor and my son had... relations."

Dumbledore looked somewhat startled.

"I assure you, Mr Winchester, Miss Granger is an exceptionally mature and-"

John held up his hand. "I'm sure she is, Mr Dumbledore." He said honestly. "But you don't know my son. Like this other kid, he tends to only apply himself when he's interested – and he's very interested in women. I wouldn't put money on _any_ lady remaining immune to his charms – not after a year of living together."

Dumbledore frowned.

"Well. Obviously Miss Granger is of age in our world, so her choices are her own but I rather think I see your point."

His face cleared.

"Very well then, it does sound like Mister Potter would be best after all. He does have experience teaching a range of students – every single one in his club last year achieved Os on their DADA OWLs, some of them leaping up from a barely scraping P. He is also a very pleasant young man – a great many students look up to him and admire him. Although.." He sighed.

"It would be remiss of me not to make you aware of the fact that young Mr Potter has had no less than five attempts on his life."

John's head snapped up, fixing the older man with an incredulous look.

"What the hell for?" He demanded, already making plans to just move his kids to Mexico or something.

"When he was a baby, an evil of the same type that you hunt came to his home and murdered his family." Dumbledore revealed solemnly. "He attempted to murder Mr Potter as well, but failed due to some rather potent protective magic fuelled by his mother's death. That failure stripped him of his body and power, leaving him to spend a decade or so possessing animals in the wilds of Europe as he struggled to build his power once more."

"Why didn't anybody kill him then?" John demanded. Dumbledore just shook his head.

"We do not have 'hunters' as you exist here in America. The Magical Governments of Europe have their own departments for destroying such things but a degree of separation exists between them and the 'normal' world. Thus, a series of animals dying in an isolated forest simply draws no attention. Even when a young woman from one of Britain's own departments went missing in that forest, it was simply assumed to be an accident or a clerical error." Now the old man actually looked somewhat embarrassed.

"You seek out anything which is strange because you hunt the supernatural." he explained. "We _are_ supernatural. Sudden disappearances are quite normal for us – faerie rings can be tripped by the unwary, a nest of acromantulas may be bred by a black market trader, a disrespectful wizard may be eaten alive by a hippogriff and it is generally considered to be the wizard's fault, unless the hippogriff is outside it's normal territory. It takes a rather big event before we... well, take note."

John shook his head, amused but also very much not so.

"Wait, so are these.. acromantulas and hippogriffs or whatever – are they covered in this Defence class?" He asked, cutting right to the chase. The unreliability of wizards went unmentioned.

Dumbledore brightened.

"Oh, thank you for reminding me. No, they would be covered by the Care of Magical Creatures class, which is an elective. Dean _is_ required to choose at least two electives that he must receive at minimum Ps in also, although to be perfectly honest CoMC is considered somewhat of a.. 'fly course' I believe the expression is."

"Bird course." John corrected absently. "And how is this Potter kid at that?"

"Comparatively experienced at CoMC." Dumbledore admitted with a wry edge. "Certainly more so than most of his class mates. He has a habit of getting caught up in dangerous situations, you see. He passed his exam with an EE and has personal experience with Hippogriffs, Acromantulas, Basilisks, Sphinxes-"

John held up a hand.

"Ok, well do you have a list of electives that Dean can choose from? And what if this Potter kid didn't do the ones he chooses?" He asked pragmatically, even though he knew Dean would _leap_ at the CoMC class – it was way too useful for hunting to pass it up.

"Dean will be welcome to write to the Professor of that topic at Hogwarts for any answers that Mr Potter cannot provide." Dumbledore said promptly. "However, we cannot provide any further tutoring. If Dean chooses a course Mr Potter does not know, it should be done so with the expectation of primarily book learning."

"Ok." John agreed. "Now what about Potter himself? This thing is still trying to kill him and nobody's doing anything about it?"

Dumbledore, for the first time, looked genuinely troubled.

"It is not quite so simple, I am afraid." he said quietly.

"Twice Mr Potter has been threatened by a spirit possession, which is so rare in the Wizarding world that it is not officially recognised as a reality. When he was fourteen, an agent of this wizard escaped confinement and kidnapped him to be used in a resurrection ritual. Quick thinking and a bit of luck allowed him to escape with his life, although his friend was murdered simply for being with him at the time. Only a few months ago, Mr Potter was manipulated into an ambush. The wizard attempted to possess the boy to make me kill them both, but was severely damaged by Harry's own magic which reacted rather violently to the intrusion. It was a victory for us, but a costly one. His friends were injured and his Godfather perished."

There was a short silence. Dumbledore clearly seemed to expect John to immediately refuse and maybe he should.

But it sounded too damned familiar to feel anything but.. empathy.

"I'm surprised his family haven't moved away." He observed. Dumbledore hesitated.

"It's not my place to speculate..." he said slowly. "But Harry was taken in by his Muggle relatives. They... dislike magic and prefer to keep their distance from it. Most likely, they are unaware of the threats Harry has faced. Their home is protected by Harry's mother's sacrifice, so they – and Harry – are quite safe there."

"Or in other words, they don't give a crap about him and the kid has no emotional support or sense of safety in his life." John replied blandly, earning a sharp look from elderly Wizard.

"I rather think we're getting off topic." Dumbledore said brusquely. "If you were to agree with taking Mr Potter on as your son's tutor, you can be assured of your family's safety. There is a spell I would use that would protect any wizard from tracking him so long as he lived with you. By teaching on behalf of, and extending his own protection, I can extend the wards of Hogwarts to anchor within him. The only danger facing him and your family would be the kind you normally chase."

John ignored the veiled accusation with the ease of years of practice. None of his closest hunting comrades had been shy about their opinion of his child-rearing decisions.

"I want all the information you have on the threats this kid has hanging over him." He stated flatly. "But otherwise, it sounds good. We can teach him what we know about hunting and he can teach _us_ what he knows about surviving."

Old blue eyes met his in agreement. "A sound plan." 

_Later_

The fireplace exploded.

Green flame and smoke _belched_ from the small opening and spat a tumbling ball of cloth and skin out into the living room, directly into the ancient, battered coffee table.

The crack of body meeting unflinching oak was accompanied by slight winces by all three Winchesters.

"Bloody buggering _fuck!_" The wizard on the ground groaned, uncurling slightly as one hand stretched back to prod gingerly at his spine. He coughed, clouds of soot fanning lazily away from him in reaction.

Dean turned a sceptical look on his father. John didn't need to hear his son's incredulous '_this_ is the _tutor_?!'.

H cleared his throat and stepped around to make sure the kid hadn't actually paralysed himself upon arrival.

"You alright there?" He queried, not stepping close enough to touch. Just in case.

Sammy, blast him, had no such reserves and had skittered over to the wizard's other side and was crouching anxiously at his head, babbling about ambulances and spinal damage and how he really shouldn't be moving.

The wizard threw up at his feet.

Sammy shut up, face twisted in shock and disgust.

Dean cracked up laughing.

John rubbed a weary hand over his face.

He had a feeling the rest of this year was going to be _long_.

"Sammy, get the bucket." he instructed, circling around the poor kid who was looking less like a potential threat and more like a potential hazard.

"No, no." The kid sputtered, head ducked in embarrassment. He paused to spit a lingering trail of saliva and bile, then fumbled in his pocket for something.

Despite himself, John tensed as the boy withdrew a wand.

He knew without looking that Dean had one hand on his gun. Just in case.

But all the kid did was flick his wand at the mess on the carpet and make it vanish. In fact, the carpet underneath it was cleaner than any of the carpet around it.

"Cool!" Sammy opinioned, swinging right back into excited.

John would be hard pressed to disagree.

There was something.. well, _magical_ about the way he'd just done that. Classically magical, as in fairy tales and kindly sorcerers rather than the more common and mundane evil-cat-murdering-soul-pledging type they usually found.

He lent a hand in pulling the boy to his feet, who then finally looked up and graced them with startlingly green eyes made larger by the ugliest par of glasses he'd ever seen.

And he'd lived through the 70's.

He was also wearing...

"Is that a _dress?_" Dean blurted, earning an annoyed and slightly embarrassed look from the British boy.

"Robe." The wizard retorted sharply, although he was shrugging it off as he spoke. "Sorry, I came straight from school." He tucked the robe into his pocket, the large piece of clothing seemingly vanishing into the tiny space.

As his sons bugged out at the display of impossibility, John took a moment to be thankful that the kid knew how to dress after all. Under the robe he wore simple - if excessively baggy - jeans and a worn-out blue shirt. Ratty trainers poked out under the trailing cuffs of his jeans. He fit in with his kids, in that his clothes were clearly second hand – if a lot more tatty than the sort he generally bought.

Second hand didn't have to mean 'one step from the bin' after all.

Well, he'd learn that soon enough. Next time he went shopping for Dean, he'd grab a few things for Harry too. Although, seeing as how the boy was a little shorter and skinnier than his son, it'd probably be easier to just have them share clothes.

Hmm. He couldn't really see two unrelated teenaged boys going for that idea. Oh well.

"You got everything you need?" John interjected over Sammy's exuberant questioning and Dean's attempts at aloof prying.

The boy looked over and nodded. "Yes, sir." He patted his other pocket. Presumably he had little TARDIS pockets and kept everything in them.

...He didn't want to think what _Dean_ would use those types of pockets for.

"Good. Then come on into the kitchen, Dinner's ready." 

He turned and left himself to dish it up.

Behind him, Harry came in with Sam at his side and Dean trailing watchfully.

_Later_

Sam had been reinvigorated at the sight of Harry's magic, begging his father and Harry to teach him magic too.

Eventually, John took him away for a moment and when they came back, Sam was silent. Harry, who didn't like the look of sad resignation, found himself thinking of solutions instead of just regarding him as 'Dean's younger brother'.

It was similar to how he'd always thought of as Ginny, he realised. And it had frustrated and offended her to never be considered her own person, instead of an extension of Ron.

"It's against the law for you to own or use a wand right now." He explained carefully, stirring his food like Sam had shown him. "And we..." He shot a quick look around the room, not wanting to upset the kid even _more_. "We don't even know if you _can_ do magic like Dean can."

He winced as Sam visibly wilted. Thinking fast, he fished out his wand.

"Here, hold this. Aim away from the table and wave your arm."

Sam barely spared a look to his father for permission before he grabbed the wand and aimed it at the wall. He'd barely waved it, though, before he yelped and dropped it.

"It's hot!"

Harry blinked as Dean and John frowned.

"It.. is? That's weird."

He got up and went around the table to pick up his wand. The wood was cool in his palm and the familiar tingle of magic was warm.

Sam, he noticed, was looking near-tears.

"That's good." he hastened to reassure. "If you hadn't had any magic, it wouldn't have reacted at all. I would just have been a sick in your hands."

Sam looked a little more cheered but Dean remained suspicious.

"What did you mean when you said it was weird?" he demanded, reaching over the table to grab his brother's hand and eye it carefully.

Harry re-took his seat with a shrug.

"Probably nothing. After all, the wand chooses the wizard – mine is probably just not suited to him."

"But you said 'weird'." Dean argued doggedly. "You wouldn't say that if it was a normal reaction."

Harry shrugged again. "Well, I went through a hundred or so wands before I found mine." He admitted. "And non-compatible wands generally show themselves in a lot of ways. Humming, vibrating, misfired spells, weak sparks etc. None of the ones I tried ever burned me, although-" he added, as he thought it through "I _was_ being given wands to try by an official wandmaker. _so_ he probably knew enough to know what kinds would definitely _not_ be compatible and just didn't even try those."

Dean seemed to accept this explanation and Sam looked a lot happier.

"So I have magic?!" He asked, bouncing a little in his seat. Harry took a bite of his meal and nodded. "I don't know how strong your potential is." He clarified after swallowing. "But yeah. You have the ability."

Sam beamed.

"So does this mean I can learn magic?!" He asked again. Dean snorted.

"Against the law, squirt. Remember?"

Harry nodded his agreement, wondering at Dean's expressionless face. Was he hiding disappointment?Relief?

"Of course," He continued absently "That's just for active magic – like wandwork. If you're magical, it's completely legal for you to learn the passive stuff. Apparently most wizarding families learn that stuff when they're kids."

"What kind of passive magic?" John interjected for the first time.

Harry paused to think it over. "Herbology, definitely. Runes too. Divination, certain astrological facts. Oh and 'the lore'." he rolled his eyes as he said the last bit, elaborating without prompting. "It's not taught in Hogwarts, because it's considered basic knowledge. Like how to use a VCR or computer. It's stuff like how to recognise and deal with common magical beings or objects. Without a wand, obviously. Anything needing a wand is taught at school."

"So what kind of stuff?" Sam asked, fascinated, his food cooling and untouched. A rap on his plate with a fork by his father had him digging into it again.

"Uh, things like faerie rings, basic home remedies and simple potions. How to acknowledge and speak with the fae without enticing them to take you away. Garden gnomes. Stuff like that. I wasn't raised in a wizarding house so I don't know many."

"Garden gnomes?" John repeated with a raised eyebrow. Harry grinned a little.

"Yeah. Like those little statues except uglier and more alive. And they swear like crazy. They're considered pests because they like making their homes inside people's gardens – too lazy to make something nice for themselves, but they also tend to damage the garden when they build their nests and burrows, so it's a normal chore for kids to be sent outside to 'degnome'. Which basically involves grabbing a gnome and flinging it over the fence as hard as you can."

His grin widened as this story drew a laugh from both Dean and Sam.

"What about runes and-and- Divinacy."

"Divination." Harry corrected. "The runes are, to be honest, not something I know a lot about. It involves a _lot_ of rote-learning – hundreds, maybe even thousands of runes to know and recognise and understand before you can even _begin _ to build runic arrays. They're mostly used in warding, although I know they can do other things – but they're obviously a lot slower than wandwork, and harder to remember, so not a lot of wizards bother with it."

Seeing that Sam's interest hadn't waned – slow and difficult or not, this was one of the few ways he could try magic – he continued.

"My friend insisted on loaning me her introductory Runes book – just in case Dean was interested in picking it up as an elective." He glanced at Dean. "If it's alright with your brother, than you could always give it a read."

Sam instantly turned large, powerfully begging eyes on his brother who caved like a house of cards.

"Pfft. Of course you can read it, geek." He muttered into his food. "'Slow and difficult' doesn't sound too useful to me."

"Not for fighting, no." Harry agreed, turning back to Sam with an encouraging smile. "But if you do get the hang of it, it can be useful. I know simple runes are used instead of refrigerators in the wizarding world. There are runes for strengthening and perma-sharp too – you could probably find some useful arrays for your weapons and clothing, to help your battles be a little safer."

At this, even John and Dean looked interested. Sam was practically squirming with excitement.

"And divination?" John asked quietly. Dean tensed slightly.

Harry shrugged, a little uneasy at _their _unease_._

"Well, to be honest, it's not very respected. Oh, it's generally acknowledged that true divination _exists_ but it's kind of.. the course is really aimed at educating you on the different ways that divination can be done and gives you the opportunity to see if you have a gift for any of them. And even then, it tends to be pretty minor stuff."

He rolled his eyes.

"I mean, my professor was a True Seer – the kind who doesn't know when she gives a real prophecy. So she spends all year making airy generic predictions and then acts knowingly when something similar happens."

"So she's a hack." Dean concluded. Harry nodded.  
>"Pretty much. But, I have to admit, I didn't pay the attention I could have. I, uh.." He reddened slightly. "I kind of stuffed around with my mate, Ron instead."<p>

"But you could teach me?" Sam clarified. Harry nodded.

"Oh, yeah. It's easy enough stuff, really. I have my old book you can read and if you have any questions, just ask. It's _very_ passive magic. So much so that even muggles – non magicals – can do it, if they have the knack."

This seemed to be too much for Sam, who leapt up from the table and brought his plate to the sink. He washed it quickly and then returned to hover about the table, waiting for Harry to finish eating.

Harry laughed as Dean mocked his little brother's eagerness. He stood up himself, then paused. He looked at Dean, who raised an eyebrow.

"It's just occurred to me.. You might not be compatible with my wand either." Harry said slowly. "I didn't question it when Professor Dumbledore said we could just share mine until you got your own, but if your brother had that bad a reaction to it..."

Dean's expression blanked and he just shrugged. "Easy. Hand it over."

Harry did so and watched, fascinated, as Dean's expressionless mask fell away to be replaced by awe.

He could feel the magic.

The boy's grip tightened but before he could wave the wand like Sam, a stream of gold and red sparks shot out from the end.

They all blinked.

"Wow." Harry said. "That's what it did when I first touched it too." He smiled. "I guess I shouldn't have worried after all.

Dean handed it back, a little reluctantly.

Harry knew how he felt. Holding a wand that _worked_ for the first time was like having your eyes opened to the magic inside of you.

"It'll be even better with your own wand." He promised. "And that's why a lot of wizards are useless without it – it's like having a limb removed."

"Now!" he turned to smile at Sam. "How about I get those books for you?"

_Later_

"So, how exactly does this tutor thing work?" Dean asked, arms crossed. He wasn't being overtly antagonistic, but it was clear he wasn't that impressed by the skinny teenaged wizard. Seriously, the kid looked more fragile than _Sammy._

"Oh, right." Harry pushed his glasses up a little and dug something the size of a penny out of his pocket. He placed it on the table and tapped it once with his wand.

It expanded into an A4, two-inch-thich booklet of parchment.

"Cool!" Sammy opinioned. Dean couldn't disagree.

"Can you teach me _that_?" He couldn't stop himself from asking. Instead of looking smug or condescending, the British wizard just smiled.

"Of course, first thing if you like. This," he gestured to the thick booklet "Is a complete list of everything you're supposed to know in order to pass your OWLs."

Dean eyed the book warily, cringing a little as Sam eagerly opened it to reveal spidery ink listing spells and tasks. Some of the words were tiny and some were as large as a fingernail.

"The bigger ones are more important." Harry explained and Dean got the sense that the other boy was trying to reassure him. "But really, you don't have to know _all _of it. Just enough to pass."

Actually, that _was_ kinda reassuring. Just like exams in normal school.

"So, anyway." Harry shrugged and crossed his arms nervously, his wand tapping his bicep absently. Dean couldn't help but keep a wary eye on it and he knew his father was as well. They didn't expect Harry to suddenly start cursing or anything, but a weapon was a weapon, no matter how casually wielded.

"I figured we should focus on this stuff first." Harry was speaking to Dean, ignoring their father as if he wasn't even there. It was startling and a little empowering to realise that as far as Harry – his tutor – was concerned, he, Dean, had the final word.

Unless it was some anti-normal-person thing, in which case Harry could go shove it.

"And then when you're confident you've got it mostly down, I could teach you anything else you want to know?"

"Tap-dancing _**pineapples**_?!" Sammy's voice squeaked on the last word, looking up with an expression that suggested he was starting to consider Wizards as more insane than cool.

Harry shrugged a little sheepishly.

"Oh, yeah. It's one of those tasks that tests multiple things – you know, transfiguration, animation, enchantment and attention to detail. We learn that stuff separately, but we're expected to be able to pull it all together for one task."

Sam nodded like that actually made perfect sense and went back to skimming Dean's chore-list of magic.

"If Dean gets the OWL book done in time, what would you suggest he study afterwards." John's voice, soft and low, got Harry's attention.

The boy didn't seem fazed to discuss it with a non-wizard, which set Dean at ease.

"Defence." Harry said flatly, clearly a knee-jerk reaction before he visibly reconsidered.

"Well, actually, I suppose whatever Dean has a preference or a talent for." An apologetic smile flashed at them. "But defence is probably a good idea too."

"There something Dean needs to be able to defend himself from?" John asked, even more quietly. Harry was sharp enough to sense that John wasn't half as calm as he sounded and shifted slightly into a more defensive posture. His wand stopped tapping.

"Officially, no." Harry said pleasantly. "Unofficially, there's a band of Wizards prone to torture and murder who waged a war in Britain about a decade ago. They've regrouped under their leader, who is very powerful and knowledgeable."

The boy unwound a bit.

"There's probably little danger for you in America." He admitted. "Unless the war spills over. Hopefully we'll be able to put him down before then, but just in case – it doesn't hurt to be prepared."

Dean nodded. They'd already been interested in defence, of course, but this sealed it.

Harry was too dark-eyed, too focused about this. This was a personal threat, like the YED was for the Winchesters. They'd be fools not to take it seriously, and hunters didn't last long if they were fools.

_Later_

Later, whilst Sam was in the bathroom, Dean cornered the wizard.

"There was more to that wand thing." He stated, his expression smooth and unyielding. "Tell me."

Harry's mouth twisted a little and he sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"There was." he admitted. "I didn't think of it right away, but afterwards... well. Professor Dumbledore said that you'd had letters sent to you since you were eleven, right?"

Dean nodded, the crease of his eyes revealing a dawning understanding.

"Did Sam?" Harry asked simply.

Dean was absolutely still for a moment before he unwound all at once, sitting on the bed across from Harry and rubbing the back of his neck. 

"I don't think so." He said. "I mean, maybe - Dad plays things pretty close to the chest. But. I don't think so."

He looked up, hazel eyes a little closer to green with a weary sort of anxiety.

"He's not a wizard?" The American teen all but whispered, not wanting his little brother to overhear and get his heart broken.

Harry tilted his head to the side and see-sawed a hand. "Maybe. I'm not sure. He _does_ have some sort of magic - he has to, or else the wand wouldn't have reacted to him at all. But..."

This time, Dean frowned as the notion that there might be something wrong - _medically_ wrong - occurred to him. He asked, point blank, if that was the case.

The startled look on the wizard's face was somewhat comforting - that hadn't been what the boy had been thinking of.

"He might be a squib." Harry replied, looking apologetic and reassuring at once. "Which basically means they _have_ magic, but, um. Can't use it very well."

Dean arched a brow, imagining _Sam_ and _disability_ put together. It was difficult.

"Mostly it just means wand-work is out." Harry added, trying to be encouraging. "But that stuff I mentioned before - that generally works, as far as I understand it. Assuming, that is" he added belatedly, "that Sam even _is_ a Squib. Like I said before, I'm not a wand-maker. He really might just need a very different wand and maybe... maybe he didn't get letters sent simply because you never replied to yours."

"But they kept sending mine." Dean replied, one ear listening for his brother's return. As eager as the kid was to learn _magic _from a real_ magician, _he'd be hurrying the shower like Dad's shouts could never make him do.

Harry shrugged and nodded. "It might have been automated?" He offered. "Your Dad said he only got one a year, right? When my Uncle... when my family tried to ignore my letter, I got dozens and then hundreds of the things flooding the house like water. But that wasn't the norm..."

As if on cue, Dean heard the shower screech off. He shook his head and sat back, appreciative when Harry seemed to take the cue and sat back himself, changing the subject.

"So... you want to try something tonight?" Harry grinned a little. "A simple little spell - it's saved my life."

"Sure." Dean replied, trying (and failing) to look nonchalant. His expression slid a little closer to suspicion when Harry's grin just widened.

"_Accio _Sam!" The wizard called, wand held aloft.

There was a startled 'oooffff' noise from the hall that Dean would recognise anywhere, before a wide-eyed little brother zoomed into the room _through the air_ to land on the bed beside Harry.

Dean gaped, there was no other word for it, even as his body tensed reflexively to go check on Sam, who just bounced up with even wider eyes and started begging to 'fly' again.

"Summoning charm." Harry _winked_. "Handy for keeping track of little brothers, I'd imagine."

Dean laughed a bit at Sam's indignant response, but he couldn't help but think of all the hunts he'd been on when the ability to summon a lost weapon - or medical kit - with a couple of words would have made all the difference to the outcome.

_It's saved my life_, Harry had said, with the simplicity of honesty.

It could save their lives too - how many times could the simple ability to summon each other from danger be used to spare them injury?

_And that was only one spell_.

Watching Sam and Harry chat as Sam asked for increasingly flamboyant shows of magic, Dean felt himself really get excited about the idea of magic for the first time.

It was no longer just some supernatural shit that set him apart from his family, that brought him closer to the things to be hunted.

It was a weapon, a weapon that Dean could and _would_ learn to use just as proficiently as he did any other. A weapon he would master so that when evil came to take his family, he'd be ready and waiting for it. 

_Much Later_

"Witches' Home & Garden?"

Dean's deeply amused voice snapped Harry back to reality, the wizard stuffing the magazine uselessly under the cushion next to him.

"Hey." Dean stepped back, hands raised mockingly. "Not for me to judge, dude"

Harry rolled his eyes and shrugged off his blushing skin. "It's not for me, you twit." He grumbled. "It's for Sam. For his birthday."

As expected, the mention of his brother caused Dean to pause, unconsciously reassessing the situation.

"...Dude. I know I call him Samantha, but you do know Sam is - technically - a guy, right?"

Ignoring the reflexive smart-ass remark, Harry dug the magazine back out and turned it around. Dean eyed the moving picture of a smiling witch curled up - somewhat indecently - with a writhing pot plant before focusing on the text.

"'Cleaning charms for every occasion.'" He read out dutifully. "'Tips and tricks for maximising your lifestyle.' So? You're gonna what, start doing his laundry?"

"No, no - but.." Harry turned the magazine back, flipped through a few pages. "There's a lot of stuff in here which I think Sam would like. The cleaning charms... there's about a _hundred_ more than I ever realised! I just know one that scrubs things clean, usually pretty dirty things. But according to this article, if you use that charm too much it can wear the object right down. Especially things like clothing and bedsheets."

Without saying a word, Dean dropped his bag and sat in the other chair. His feet were kicked up onto the coffee table, but his expression was attentive. Still amused and a little mocking, but Harry was starting to think that was his default face.

"At first I was looking because of all the whining you do about cleaning out ectoplasm." Harry grinned. "But the more I looked, well..."

He eyed the other boy - student, friend - carefully.

"I don't mean to be... impolite. But... Sam isn't happy. Is he."

Dean froze. No, freezing implied rigidity, shock. Dean didn't freeze, he just went very still - like a predator poised to attack.

"With hunting, I mean." Harry hurried to explain himself. "But not even that, so much as... the moving. The not-being-able-to-have-stuff. The impersonal motels."

"Sam tell you this?" Dean asked, faux-casual. Harry just met his eyes, open and honest.

"Yeah. He did." He replied. "Sam gets lonely - and anxious - whenever you and John go hunting. He talks more to distract himself, but he's honest too. And, well... I'm not you."

Something flickered in Dean's eyes and Harry stumbled over himself to explain.

"I mean, I'm not his elder brother who he looks up to and wants the approval of. I'm disconnected - I _know_ about the family business but I'm not a part of it. Anyway." He cut his hand through the air.

"I think it's the little things that are the worst. Stale motel beds and bathrooms, cleaning blood out of your clothes, the sense of impermanence caused by only ever having the weapons and clothes brought with you. He told me how, a few times, his friends would write him cards to say goodbye but John wouldn't let him keep them."

"They weren't cards, they were friggen posters." Dean scoffed. "And they were stupid. We can't have crap like that cluttering up the car - not to mention how screwed we'd be if we needed to book suddenly and it got left behind for the cops."

Harry shrugged. "You're probably right. And in ten years, Sam would probably agree with you. But right now, for all his intelligence... Sam really is just a kid. And I don't know if he's softer than you or more stubborn than you, but _right now_ this stuff matters to him. And he gets why he can't have it, he really does, but that doesn't mean he doesn't wish he could. Doesn't mean he doesn't get depressed every time he has to get rid of the stupid little things that matter to him."

Dean was glaring at the wall, though something in the crease of his eyes suggested more turmoil than anger

"Anyway." Harry said softly. "I just thought that maybe I could help with that a little. And I got to looking and I've found a bunch of stuff that I think could be useful."

"Like what?" Dean asked dismissively, though his eyes were intent on Harry's own.

"Like this." Harry stood and drew his wand, drawing his breath to focus and cast.

"_Reducio._" He intoned, sweeping his wand at the couch and both twin beds. They shrunk, slowly, to the size of matchboxes.

"You could have a box." Harry continued, explaining as he picked up a shoebox he'd dug out of the garbage skip that day for precisely this purpose. "And you could charm it to be as sturdy as stone." He tapped all sides of the box, including the lid, then placed it on the floor and tried to stomp it flat. The thin piece of cardboard didn't even dent.

"And in that box, you and Sam both - and John too - could keep all the non-essential stuff you wanted." He flicked his wand at the shrunken beds and couch, guiding them into the shoebox.

"And then every time you hit a motel where the beds have been slept in by total strangers and smell like smoke or whatever? You just flick your wand and they're out of the way, your own stuff in their place."

He demonstrated, returning the shrunken beds and couch to the floor and enlarging them. He then turned back to Dean, who hadn't moved but was watching everything with careful, calculating eyes.

"And it could be more than that. Just a few seconds - a few words - and even the most flea-infested, stained-carpet motel can be cleaned to as-good-as-new. You could carry around your own mattresses and bedsheets and blankets - meaning no matter where you were, you would always be able to 'sleep in your own bed' at the end of the night. You-you could stock up on inexpensive fruit and vegetables when you're in farmland and store them in another box charmed to keep them fresh. There's charms to turn a table into a stove-top, to heat a pot as if it were in an oven - if Sam wanted to put the effort in to make the 'real food' he wants so much, he could do it."

He stopped and sat back down on the couch. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to say this is a bad life. It's just... I just..."

He sighed.

"I just want Sam - and all of you - to be happy. You guys do good, important work. But that doesn't mean you can't have a good home to go to at the end of the day."

There was a long, loaded silence. Then, rolling his eyes, Dean thawed.

"Man, no wonder Sam was all sharing-and-caring with you. You're _both_ a couple of girls."

Harry glared and threw a cushion. Dean caught it with a smirk and tucked it behind his head.

"Okay then, Martha. Lay it on me."

Harry blinked.

"_You_ want to learn it?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Uh, yeah? Unless you're planning to stick around for longer than I thought?"

Harry caught himself and frowned. "Oh, right."

Standing again, he twirled his wand - something else he'd learnt to do whilst Dean was gone and Sam was in school - and pointed it at the magazine, silently banishing it into Dean's face.

Dean squawked and Harry grinned.

"Take a look through the magazine. Mark everything you want to learn whilst I start dinner. Afterwards, we can get started."

"Bossy." Dean grumbled, but he had that amused look back, which made Harry smile too.

Later, once Sam was home and working on his homework, Dean stepped up next to him to poke at the steaming potatoes.

"It's a good idea. Thanks."

Harry smiled softly at the pan-frying steak.

"Yeah, well. There's this guy I know who really cares about him. He's kinda rubbing off on me, to tell you the truth."

He glanced sideways, catching a quiet half-grin that made him clear his throat and fight back the heat in his cheeks.

"Now go set the table, slacker." He said a bit louder, causing Sam's head to pop up and grin at him as Dean moaned and whinged and otherwise made a big production out of the simple chore.

_Somewhere_

Harry glanced at the tea leaves in his cup, absently picking out something that was either a crouching dog or a very plump clown car.

"Here." He handed it over. "Take a look and make a note of any shapes you find - like cloud watching. Don't strain for them, just jot down the first thing that comes to mind. If you don't see anything, or after you find something, rotate the cup a quarter and keep looking."

Sam did so, scribbling away on his notebook. Harry figured enthusiasm was more to fault than imagination, though there was no doubt that the boy had more of both than Harry ever did.

"There!" Sam put the pencil and cup down, then pushed the pad to Harry for perusal, a look of apprehension replacing success. Was he expecting to be graded on it? _'Nice effort, but tsunamis don't reach this far inland'_?

Sam's notes were, as Harry had expected, imaginatively detailed. A hundred dollar bill - differentiated apparently by Sam recognising the shape of the head on the bill. A running man. A lonely tree. (Lonely?) etc etc

Harry nodded and smiled encouragingly, returning the pad along with the book. "Ok. Good. Look those things up and let me know."

That got him another ten minutes or so of peace and quiet and he used it to half-heartedly flick through one of Dean's skin mags. Under the table, obviously.

"Okay!" Sam announced, still nervous but buoyed by being able to recite information from the book. "The money means that... you're going to be wealthy. No! No it's not inverted, so you _are_ wealthy." He peeked up at Harry, who just nodded. He supposed he was, vault full of gold and all. Sam brightened and kept reading.

"The running man – it's kinda obvious. I mean, the book says – anyway. It says you're running away from something." This time Sam kept his head down, knowing a personal subject when he stumbled over it. Harry was glad he did, he knew his own face was pale.

"And the lonely tree... well I couldn't find it exactly, but the tree alone is meant to be a leader – but not _just_ a leader, it's a leader who a lot of people depend on-" Harry swallowed. "And the lack of leaves means it's not healthy or not connected – it says 'estranged' but I'm not sure what that means." The boy peeked up again but whatever was on Harry's face, it made him duck instantly back down again.

"And, um, the 'lonely' thing... the book just says that sometimes strong emotions will attach themselves to symbols and should be accounted for alongside it... so, um, you're an estranged leader who is lonely... or maybe _a_lone, it said sometimes the meaning can be literal."


	13. HP Dr Who Long Live the Empress

This was a little something I was working on but I can't actually remember how it was supposed to end. So, up it goes and feel free to adopt or spin it off.

**Long Live the Empress!**

She boiled with hatred, for the murdering Doctor-man, for the insolent food whose primitive weapons had destroyed her ship and nearly killed her. Her! Empress of the Racnoss! She'd had barely enough time, enough power, to transport back down to the surface, as far from the human hive as possible.

All her careful work, her refinement, her plans and success… all _lost._

Her _**children**_. Lost.

But _she_ survived. And as long as she did… her species did. Her species _would_.

She knew it. Believed it. Willed it. Nesting in a dank forest, somewhere north of the insolent hive and utterly bereft of the huon energy her species had evolved to utilise… she _had_ to believe. Somehow. Somehow, the Racnoss would survive.

Weeks passed, the revolution of the planet so much quicker than on her home world. Time slipped past her as she wandered ever deeper into the wilderness, looking for a safe place to nest, near creatures too stupid to flee. Perhaps a small human hive would suffice. She was an Empress and not _meant_ to wander. She had eggs yet, inside her, fertilised by her stores of male essence taken so long ago… but she could not lay them. Without even a scrap of huon energy, her children would lie unborn, no spark to waken their hunger.

She grew weaker. Her limbs were quick, but her body heavy and large. The trees were so short and dense, making every movement more difficult. Creatures of all sizes fled from her unless she was absolutely still - but her stomachs cramped with hunger, she could not wait!

The day she sensed a curl of huon energy, she was so weak from hunger that she couldn't even move towards it. She could only lie helpless, groaning in pain and loss, and hope that whatever it was would come close enough to catch.

It did. A human, skinny and stringy with strangely fluffy white fur, meandered over to her.

_He_ was the source! Tiny, little more than a spark, but _real_ and present!

"Oh, what's this? Oh my, _Aranea Mortalis_, I've read about you but never seen-! What an honour! I wonder if you might consent to an interview?"

She blinked at the strange human. It stank of plants and sweet fermentation - but no fear. Dying, she forced herself to think beyond 'hungry, _meat_!'

"Are there othersss?" She asked, arranging her legs to look as harmless as possible. It went against the grain for an Empress to act so meek, but pride came _after_ the survival of her species.

"Do you mean my family? Oh yes, I have, uh, I have just the one. A daughter. She's back at camp, not far, would you like to see her? She's learning to be a journalist too, if you, uh, if you'd prefer a lady to interview you?"

"Yesss…" The empress hissed, pleased. One to feed upon - and the huon energy within, no matter how small, would be ever so much more filling than meat alone - and one to lay within. "I would speak with you both, you and your… _daughter_."

The human lit up, showing teeth in the meat way - not threat, but in happiness. A species born to be prey. She allowed him to scamper away, no fear meaning he wasn't fleeing forever. She was Empress, wise and forward-thinking. She could wait, for this.

In time, the human returned. Behind him trailed a human with much longer fur, less fluffy but still strange. More meat on her too, despite the youth. Of carrying age, excellent, she would be nourishing. And… _yessssss_, another glimmer of huon energy.

She bared her teeth in victory and beckoned them closer.

"Come, little humans… ask me your questions… I shall answer."

The man bounded forward, his child trailing more slowly. Her eyes were distant, but sharper. Her scent was edged with faint anxiety - wiser than her father she was, as _all_ females were. But obedient still, coming closer at her father's call.

She hissed, pleased and hungry and charged with hope.

"Tell me, curious little humans… are there many of your kind?" She asked first, pushing back the insistent _feedbreedfeedbreed_ urge within. If there were a village of them nearby, _oh_, the revenge she would have!

"Wizardkind?" The man fished something out of his pocket. Ancient, primitive writing instruments and pressed wood - paper. "Oh, not so much, considering. Before I was born, there were over ten thousand of us. Now, well the Ministry estimates can't be trusted, but I'd say no more than three thousand."

"Three thousssand…" The Empress murmured. Each with only a spark of huon energy within. Three thousand potential children, if only she could find them all - or lure them all to her. Less, if she needed to feed on them herself. Would three thousand children be enough? Once she would have _known_ it was, especially for such a primitive world. But… with no huon energy… and that murdering Doctor-man…

She needed to find a way to manufacture the particles once more. Without her ship, she'd need a human to arrange the complex machinery… without her supervision or control. And when it came time to dose the humans… oh, _slowly_, so slowly and quiet, lest she be discovered too soon.

But for now…

Both humans were within her grasp and with her last dreg of energy she stabbed forward at both. Her forelegs, hair-thin barbs tipped with her mildest venom - to subdue a prickly enemy that she might feast on them still living - pierced their fleshy exterior with ease, dropping them to the ground. Both reached for something - a weapon? - but only the male kept his strength long enough to brandish it at her.

She laughed, long and loud. "A sssstick? Hssss, what would you do with sssuch a weapon?" She chortled. "Humanssssch… so very funny."

"Arvav…kaburb.." The human slurred, arm wavering. Incredibly, the stick in his hand _bucked_, a yellow-green light shooting as fast as a laser to burn past her and wither the tree behind. Had the human not been so unstable, it might well have harmed her - even killed her!"

She rose to her full height, furious and fearful even though the humans were both now unconscious. Huon energy! She'd know it anywhere. None lingered in the tree but for just a moment, the energy in the male had strengthened and created… whatever that weapon was.

Distrustfully, she flicked the dangerous stick-weapons aside. Then - carefully, so carefully with fragile little human-meat - she tore their secondary skins away so that other sticks might not be hidden.

Then she bound them in her webs, secure and binding. She would nest here, out of necessity. Perhaps other humans would come looking for their absent hive-mates, humans with little sparks of huon energy to strengthen her and awaken her children.

Her stomachs clenched and expanded sharply, her mouth flooding with enzymes in reaction. She was so hungry. So weak. She should wait, wait until the human could speak again, use him as she had used Lance to further her plans… but she was so hungry.

Tugging him over, she made sure his daughter could see, then bit through his soft-soft flesh to the organs and meat within. The digestive juice in her mouth flooded into his system, wrenching a groan of pain from him despite paralysed lips. She withdrew and licked her lips, absently binding the human anew so that his liquefying body - so inconveniently not encased by an exoskeleton - would not fall to waste. Then she kept him close, taking but a mouthful of fresh new food as soon as it became available.

She felt the tiny huon energy within, move to her. Her limbs strengthened as the human's life faded.

She bared her teeth to the sky and made plans.

_LLtE_

"Harry, have you heard from Luna recently?"

Elbow deep in paperwork, eyes bracketed with the purple skin of not-enough-sleep, Harry Potter looked up from his work and tried to find a smile for his old - and most faithful - friend.

"Sorry, Hermione, what?" He asked, rubbing between and on either side of his eye sockets. He heard his office door close, Hermione helping herself to the seat in front of his desk. He opened his eyes to meet quietly contemplative ones.

"Tea?" Hermione replied, already snapping her fingers. Jelly, one of the House Elves (now technically just 'Elves') in charge of re-educating freed elves as to their rights and responsibilities under the law (and more specifically, what pay and working conditions they were entitled to), popped into the office with a set already in hand. Almost three years after the final destruction of Voldemort, a tumultuous shakedown of an old and flawed Ministry and a political powerhouse alliance of Harry's strength and infamy paired with Hermione's drive and intellect had led to a near-mandatory cup of tea whenever they met.

As Hermione got on top of her workload and results began to show, she stopped losing weight, her hair smoothed out and so did her complexion. Harry, on the other hand…

Jelly served them both tea then popped away.

Hermione lifted hers and waited till Harry followed before gesturing at the piles of paper.

"Is it work? Or home?"

Green eyes slid an annoyed look her way, their owner taking a long sip to delay answering.

Hermione watched him, let her familiarity soak in. She was his friend first. Always would be.

"…I know you don't want to be an auror." She said gently. "And I'm not blind - I know there's something going on between you and Ginny. I know it's probably private but I _also_ know that you can't exactly have a guy-talk about it with Ron, so… I'm here. I'll keep whatever you say confidential, I promise."

The look she got this time was more exasperated than annoyed. She was too pushy, she knew she was, despite years of learning how to soften her approach. She was lucky to have friends that accepted it as part of her.

"It was different, in the beginning." Harry allowed grudgingly. "The ministry, I mean. We were changing so _much_. We might have been aurors by the badge, but we were still the same people just trying to survive and take down as many Death Eaters as we could. Then we ran out of active Death Eaters and started raiding the quiet ones. Then it was unmarked criminals. Detective work. Policing. Being seen and running 3am beats and hauling some idiots in for drunk and disorderly or charming of Muggle devices…"

Hermione winced sympathetically. Harry might have had a vague notion of being an auror once, but what had he really known were options? She didn't know if it were Umbridge or just more of the Wizarding World's endemic inefficiency, but neither of them had been given a proper career briefing.

"It's not a crime to decide you're not enjoying your job and look for something else." She said mildly. Harry scowled moodily. Hermione hesitated.

"There are… other things you can do, Harry. Most professions in the Wizarding World work by apprenticeship. If you… felt like you couldn't do something privately in the UK, well. I could help you set up in a different country. The regard for vanquishing Voldemort _alone_ would cover your costs."

Slowly, Harry's brow smoothed. He looked up, something like hope entering eyes that hadn't seen it for too long.

"You think so?"

"I do. We've all worked hard to repair a system that others broke. We're _all_ entitled to doing whatever we want now." She winked and was gratified to get a shy grin in return. Twenty years of age but still stunted in some ways - most critically his ability to stand up for himself and his desires. Put him in front of a dozen terrorists and he was blinding judgement dispensed with a lighting wand. Put him in front of friends, family and stranger's expectations and he shut down.

"And Ginny?" She asked. Harry rolled his eyes at her.

"Ginny." He sighed. "She. I. I like her. I do. We get on, you know? But…"

She waited. Rushing Harry never worked out well.

"She's excited." The young man said abruptly, staring into the distance. "So excited about… stuff. Doing up Grimmauld Place and renting it, or keeping it as a London Getaway. Taking the reward money and investing it instead of letting it gather dust. Finding out where my Grandparents lived, and if they left anything - she reckons the Potters used to live in a small castle, that 'everyone knows' it's on the coast somewhere, unplottable. 'Modest, but still a _castle_', she said." On a roll now, he frowned. "She wants me to sort out my parent's will and investigate anything left to me by other families over the years. She even tracked down which firm handled my family, but since we're not actually married or anything, they wouldn't let her take a look. She… she wants me to give her written permission to deal with them, and the Goblins, because I'm pretty busy and the Goblins kinda hate my guts."

Hermione bit back her first reaction which was something along the lines of 'gold digger'. That wasn't fair. Ginny _was_ a genuinely nice girl, if a bit sharp now and then.

"It bothers you?" She asked, as neutrally as she could manage. Harry's frown deepened.

"It shouldn't?" He guessed. "I mean… we're going to get married, right? And I _am_ busy and the Goblins _do_ hate me. And you know she was behind the Twin's business picking up."

Hermione nodded. It was true. Fred and George had been brilliant creators but much less so at the boring business side of things. After their initial rush of success, they might very well have gone under or been bought out, had Ginny not gone in and brutally cut unnecessary expenses and reworked their financial setup. It came from growing up in such a poor family, Hermione privately believed. The youngest Weasley was still doggedly trying out for professional quidditch teams when she probably _should_ be aiming for a secure job with the bank or an accounting firm - but the girl just didn't care when it wasn't money connected to her.

"But." Harry tacked on the end, not needing to say more. He felt it shouldn't bother him, _but_ it did.

"Harry," she paused, calculating. "Do you… are you sure you even want to get married at all?"

There, it was out in the open. Something she'd been thinking about for a long time, something Harry probably hadn't allowed himself to think. Green eyes snapped to hers, unreadable.

"I… love Ginny." Her oldest and best friend said slowly. It sounded hollow.

"She's.. Funny. Fun. We get on. And she's… you know, we…" He blushed.

"You have a good sex life?" She filled in with a smirk. He rolled his eyes at her, but nodded.

"She's beautiful. And… it's good. _Really_ good. And that's… that's what love is, isn't it? Someone you get on with but also… you know."

"Are attracted to." She finished. Then, "Some people think so. I… used to think so."

He looked at her, genuinely startled. She shrugged.

"Ron and I broke up four months ago." She revealed, hurrying before Harry's incredulity turned to hurt. "We're keeping it quiet. You know how it is. We've already whitewashed Ron ducking out on us right at the end - news of two of the trio splitting up? It'd hamstring our political and public clout, and we're not out of the legislative wood yet."

"Are you okay?" Harry asked, reminding Hermione of why he was her _best_ friend. She smiled, genuinely.

"I am. _We_ are. I'd been thinking about it for a long time, but it was actually Ron who brought it up. We'd kinda… grown apart. A lot. Before then. We were… friends living together. Living different lives in the same house. To be honest… I don't think we ever really 'got together' so much as '_fell_ together'. We were kids, everyone was always going on about us arguing like a married couple, we were friends, hormones were kicking in… it kind of happened by itself. We're both just glad it didn't ruin the relationship we already had.

Harry smiled at her, glad and a touch melancholy.

"We didn't have anything in common, except the war - and you." She continued easily. "I think maybe… you and Ginny have even less in common. What do you two even talk about?" _Besides your inheritance_ she didn't say. Frankly, poor background or not, she thought it in very bad taste that the girl allowed herself to get such itchy fingers for Harry's money. They were only boyfriend and girlfriend for goodness' sake, even if the whole world seemed to be waiting for their wedding announcement. She wasn't looking to blow it on high-end luxuries - at least not right away - but it certainly seemed like she was planning her life around Harry's wealth supporting her in a life of whim and indulgence. To have such a future almost guaranteed _would_ make anyone excited - especially a young woman. Still.

Harry quirked a humourless smile.

"Work. Ron. The twins' shop. Her tryouts. Your legislation efforts. Gossip." He listed, before shrugging.

"You're friends." She said gently. "Ignoring the sex… if you just couldn't, ever again, with her… would you still want to marry her?"

Harry sighed and pressed his hands into his eyes.

"Voldemort was easier." He groaned. Hermione laughed and ruffled his hair.

"Liar." She said fondly. He smiled, but any reply was cut off as a paper airplane sailed through a message vent and nose-dived into his desk. It was edged with red, urgent.

Sighing, he unfolded it. Frowned.

"Lovegood's supplier has reported him missing." He read blankly. "Two days overdue on picking up the paper for the next edition of The Quibbler, supposedly only happened once before, splinching accident."

Hermione stood, ready to excuse herself - and paused.

"…Luna didn't show up for tea, Friday last." She said slowly. "I thought she probably just… well. You know. But, if they're _both_ missing…"

Harry tapped the message with his wand, taking the case on personally, then snapped his fingers for his own Ministry-employed elf - Belly. A few quick orders and most of his paperwork was offloaded to Ron, who'd find out the next morning.

"It's an informal check at first." He sighed, as Hermione visibly wondered why he wasn't calling for a partner. "_Protocol_" he added, with utter disgust. She grinned.

"Well, maybe I'll join you." She offered. "Luna's our friend, I'm sure she'd like us to drop 'round for a visit."

He offered her his arm and, a glint of old times in their eyes, they disapparated together.

_**LLtE**_

**Spoiler: **I remember that this story involved Harry and Hermione getting caught and Harry's MoD thing came in to play in that he could act as an incubator for the Empress' eggs, have his spark and body/life consumed in the spawning but then _not die_ and be ready to do it all again - but I can't for the life of me remember how it was supposed to end or whether anyone other than him survived it. I need to take better notes. What do you reckon?


End file.
